Good morning all. I am in a very good mood this morning. Last night my seedlings spent their first night in the great out doors and not a one of them suffered for it. Soon the garden planting will begin. As my seedlings are at the stage where they really need to go into the ground I am very pleased with this. But you did not stop by for news of the garden. You popped in for a writing prompt. So let’s get to it shall we?
I think this is an interesting set up. I can’t tell what the story is yet, but I like George. Definitely something worth keeping to play around with later.
Tuesday, April 27th: The street housed a number of small imports stores.
The street housed a number of small imports stores. In these still dark hours while the store fronts remained dark and locked, the rear of the buildings were a hive of activity. Cargo, loaded onto trucks at the dorks were ferried to the loading docks.
While each crate was checked and double checked at the docks, the items loaded onto the trucks only after the items were searched by customs and the manifests inspected, here was a different inspection. The trucks pulled up to the loading docks and the backs were opened. Crates were unloaded, counted twice and inspected for outward signs of damage. As the empty trucks trundled away, returning to ferry more goods, the unpacking began.
Each crate had its own list of items and each item was checked off as it emerged from the packing material. The first person merely marked the items down as being present. It was a roll call to make certain nothing was left behind. The unpacked items were then taken inside and handed over to a specialist. There each object was studied for minute cracks, chips, dents, any sort of damage that might make it unsellable or make it look inferior. There were still places for these items, but it wasn’t in the front room of the shop. Those not deemed worthy of display would be sold off to a dealer who specialized in slightly damaged items for those shopping on a budget.
Those stores were located further down the street, beyond the crossroads. Those on this side of the divide fancied themselves to be of a higher caliber. While not every shop received goods on the same day, there was a similarity of schedule and on the days shipments arrived, the docking areas were transformed into strange bazaars, often reminiscent of the items origins. They were a community of sorts and as such news and gossip spread between them as quickly as any close knit neighborhood.
George started working here when his father was the proprietor of note and his grandfather still came in to supervise the shipments. Some of the others had been here as long, while others were newer to the neighborhood. Now his son ran the day to day arrangements, his grandson came in to work after school and he supervised the morning shipments.
This morning started out like so many in the long chain of his life. He watched the boxes move from truck to docks, and then the unpacking began. He was the one who would make the final decision on its inclusion within the shop or it’s sale past the crossroads and so he waited his turn in the chain of events, sipping his morning coffee as he watched the others do the heavy lifting. As he waited, he could hear the mutterings, the rumblings of voices. There was gossip afoot. He could hear the timber of the voices. He wondered if it would be business or personal. The shocked tones could herald divorce, bankruptcy or the exposure of smuggling. Either way, he knew the voices would filter down to him and whatever it was would be the talk of the day.
Ten til Midnight 