Johnny flicked off the light switch, shouldered his guitar, and tugged his woolen hat down over his ears. The small apartment above the café was barely big enough to stretch out in. A bed shoved against the wall, the stove doubling as a nightstand. Thin walls. Cold floors. But it was warm enough, and the café owner below didn’t mind when Johnny was short on rent, so long as he worked a few shifts to cover the difference. It wasn’t much, but in a city like this, it was everything.
Continue reading “The Busker (edited and revised)”
reflections of an unquiet mind 