When I have Fears That I May Cease To Be

“Lester Drinkwater died last week. Hands down, greatest bartender there ever was. Pulled the best pint, served the best food and without a doubt, he was the best story teller that I had ever met.”

“He told us he was a writer. You could tell, the stories he told stuck with you. Even when you were slumped over the bar, trying to keep the hiccups down, you’d remember every detail of he had to say. They were gripping, they were epic, they were remarkable.”

“Every time I went for a pint, he had a new story to tell. There was always a new one and they were always exciting. The Tramp in the Boxcar, he had the one about the channel swimmer and one about these girls who escaped this big festival fire. Publishers would have made millions off of him. Heck, Hollywood should have picked up him and produced the next 15 best films of the decade using his mind as a script.”

“Police told us to come and collect some of his things this morning. His will stated all the locals were entitled to the possessions in his flat above the pub. Now Drinkwater said he was a writer, but there was nothing of that matter in his home. I would have loved to take home a book he wrote or an anthology of poetry he created, but he had nothing. He never put pen to paper.”

“His stories will start fading, now. The ones we remember, none of us could tell them as well as he did. He died without ever having anything down for someone else to read. He never got to share his ideas outside the village. If other people didn’t enjoy them as much as we did, that would be okay, but he will never know how they would have done when shown to the world.”

“That got me thinking. I’ve got to start fucking writing.”

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