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Riding a dying horse

In by Wyatt on December 7, 2010 at 4:48 pm

I walked the familiar streets, the air was unexpectedly warm and I left my coat in the car. I found the first bookstore by accident. Pausing outside, wondered what to say, how to look like I’d done this before. The door jingled and that thick comfy scent of printed pages wafted but did nothing to settle the butterflies.

“I’m a local author, and was wondering if I could speak to the manager about carrying my book.”

The cashier smiled supportively. Neither of us said the obvious: if he carried it or not was irrelevant — no one bought books any more.


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