The Year it Rained

Welcome to the clockwork of The Devonshire Arms. Eleven minutes past nine and any moment Geoff will walk in through the glass-panelled door and begin unbuttoning his burgundy overcoat as he does every Wednesday night. The bar is dotted with customers. Charles-the-Shoe in residence at the end by the wine rack, draped over his stool. He stares through his wire frame spectacles at the whisky he turns in his wrinkled hand – studying the liquid as it flows in waves. As I reach the bottom of my pint, Carl is already pulling me the next. I watch its bubbles swim as the door opens with a squeak. No one looks round.

– Benjamin F Jones
New start

Looking up

I am climbing back to my feet after months of exhaustion as a result of a thyroid malfunction. I never thought that it was possible to be so tired that sitting at a keyboard for 5 minutes was to exhausting to comprehend.

About Graphite Bunny

I am a writer working in South Wales (UK). I love pizza, photography and moist clay. When it rains I catch drops in my open mouth. I create poetry, flash, absurdist snapshots and humorous fiction.
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3 Responses to The Year it Rained

  1. It’s hard to imagine being in such an exact routine, although some people seem to achieve it. I hope that Geoff sends his burgundy overcoat to the dry cleaners occasionally, if he isn’t to clear the bar after a few years of Wednesdays!

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