barbara fletcher

I’m walking past the shop-fronts; some alive and vibrant with clothes and jewellery and knickknacks, some dissolving into the blur of grimy windows and melancholy. And in that blur, one window jumps out of the dinginess. It has a message.

I can’t see anything inside the store; it’s dark and dusty, and only a few metres of worn floorboards catch the light. Nothing has called this place home in a while.

And stuck to the inside of filthy window is a short note (supposedly) from father to child: HAVE A GREAT DAY AT SCHOOL! AND DON’T BECOME A WRITER. ❤ DAD

This makes me stop, and within seconds I’ve invented his story. There is a man — who knows if he is a father. He’s a tired and rumpled guy who looks ten years older than he is. Lined, unshaven. A little anxious. He has has penned a few unread novels that sit somewhere in these shadows. He tried to hide from writing and make a living from running a takeaway shop. Which was also unsuccessful. Failure haunts him and he’s had enough. Leaves his books and his shop and his warning behind.

His message, sarcastic and pathetic, is meant to be funny. And it is funny. Few would argue that it is probably sound advice to little writer wannabes. A message that perhaps people would have remembered him for.

I’m drinking coffee in a tattoo parlour. It’s also a coffee shop. It serves really good coffee.

It’s a long and narrow space, like most storefronts along these streets. In the front an old door functions as a table, and a bench quilted with rainbow colours and skulls stretches along its length. An old tin ceiling, painted white, floats above dark purple walls covered in indie art and hanging skulls threaded with heavy twine. There are skulls on my chair, too: an almost cartoonish print that seems suited to pajama bottoms. Festive heads and crossbones.

The woman making my coffee is laid back and nice. Like a friend that you would sit up with all night, drinking wine and waxing reflective about the 80s. I wonder if she’s the one who wields the needles in the back.

Old and new rock music drifts out from a lone speaker. It’s just the right decibel level. It warms the bones of the place.

It’s so bright in the front that I can’t quite see the colour of my coffee as I pour in the milk. A little dizzied by the holographic skulls flashing upwards from the coffee mat. Winking.

Into the dark back room, there are plush armchairs in deep reds and purples, embroidered with rich and gothic designs. And skulls, of course. All decadence and comfort. This is presumably where the inking happens.

I resist taking out my camera, as much as my fingers beg me. But I don’t want to feel like a tourist here. Because here I can be a writer.

But I’m also thinking of something more permanent.

The hard, rough, rasp of it:
that’s the worst part. The struggle of
air to venture in and to escape.
Whistling in, wheezing out.
A tough and tiring journey:
this labour to live.

Too many times we’ve heard this sound
and wondered Is this the last time?
This rattle that rattles us.
Desperately willing the sound to
stop stop stop, but knowing
the gravity of what an end means.