Author's note:

Hellooo!

 I wrote this for our second creative response. I feel like I improved with incorporating subtext and working in dialogue (which is not at all my strong suit). However, there are several areas I'm unsure of. Is the section with the overheard dialogue snippets too confusing? Is the overall piece too short? Does it end too abruptly? How could I improve the ending/subtext bits?

Thanks so much for your feedback!

Mallory Johnson

Impressed

      The day was bright and unassuming, the air soft, cool and sweet smelling. Mr. Gibbons was taking his morning walk. He turned the corner sharply and his ears were assaulted with an onslaught of familiar noises – drunken shouts at the local pub’s tele, construction work on some nearby flats, tourists barking at their children in strange accents and foreign languages. Mr. Gibbons was used to this, however. It came with the territory of living in one of the world’s major cities. He was used listening to tourists, and interacting with them at his work.

     That shop girl was quite nice, he thought to himself and brightened, and seemed especially impressed when I mentioned my work. “That’s right. Hatchards” I’d said, “Oldest, most famous bookstore in London…. Yes, that’s right. The owner.” And her eyes had widened, and she’d been impressed.

   He continued on his normal route and passed many people from all different walks of life, picking up snippets of morning chatter.

    “… on the way to work, and it kept one amused.” Work. I should be on my way to work.

   “…. and he’d probably be delighted to talk about it.” That shop girl really liked my stories.

   “Well, he should be – why wouldn’t he be?”

   “Four is always better. I don’t know why.”

   “If you’re going to get cremated you should buy a nice rock somewhere.”

   “I never asked, but how old were you when your father…?”

  “Ten.” Ten. I was ten when I first saw Hatchards, Mr. Gibbon reminisced  – green and gleamin’ in the light - old, and tall, and impressive. Oh, so impressive.

    Mr. Gibbons stopped at a nearby cart for lunch. He normally stopped at the café next to Hatchards for lunch. All sorts come in and out of that place, he’d been telling the shop girl. Famous actors, and writers – they come in all day to sit, and eat, and be inspired. And they know me. They know my face – they know “there goes Mr. Gibbons. He owns the most renowned bookshop in the whole of London.”

    Mr. Gibbons took his lunch from the man at the cart and continued on. He ate alone on a bench near the river. He was used to eating alone. He ate his breakfast and dinner at his house where he lived alone. But at lunch – at lunch he ate at the café next to Hatchards.

   Mr. Gibbons stared out at the water. “Will I see you if I stop by?” she had asked.

  “Uhh…. No… No, you won’t. I don’t work there anymore, you see. New management and all that.”

   “Oh, I see.” She’d said and looked unimpressed.

Mr. Gibbons looked down at the water. The ledge was slick. The water gleamed green in the afternoon light and stretched out impressively before him.