By Vyvyan Bloomfield
The stench of stale booze, durries and body odour hung in the air, clung to nicotine-stained ceilings and walls. The rotting, beer-soaked floorboards groaned under foot, and the pool table told a story of stained neglect.
No flirtatious barmaids, no chatter and banter, no music or laughter.
No patrons apart from one sozzled old miner swaying on a faded orange stool, his mangey cattle dog stretched out asleep by the door.
Once, Paul could barely keep up with the orders. Now he could barely stay awake.
The gold mine had gone from boom to bust. All that was left was rust and dust.
He sighed and wiped the bar for the third time in half an hour. He wanted out. Not just out of the pub–but the whole damn town. He was desperate to sell–no takers.
Who’d buy a crumbling pub in a dying mining town? He was trapped.
Paul glanced out the grimy window.
Two teens loitered on the footpath, puffing away.
“Bloody silly sods, as if the town didn’t have enough lung problems already.”
Then a third kid wandered over joining the two lung cancer candidates. He struck a match.
A tiny flare, barely there, but it sparked something in Paul’s mind.
He smiled for the first time in months.
Why hadn’t he thought of it before?
His smile spread wider across his ruddy face–his ample belly responded to his chuckle.
He began to plot his escape. Publican Paul he’d be no more.
Insurance would pay.
Vyvyan Bloomfield: G’Day Owyagoin’ can be purchased at
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