In my small town I got nothing to worry about, except get up in the morning, head to work, and go to the pub after. I go to the pub every day to see my friends and nothing really happens beyond that. There’s some small drama, sometime, a fight, a squabble. Nothing serious, not like in other towns. The town has a beautiful beach that nobody uses. We aren’t too keen on sunbathing but we do take a dip or two when the weather permits. The town is sandwiched between two castle ruins that overlook the ocean. The town is old and important back in the day. Some say king arthur had his court here at one point but I don’t believe it, I don’t wanna believe because I want to keep things as they are, quiet and unassuming. Of course, because of the rumour, we get a visitor or two.

We don’t mind strangers as long as they leave eventually. We might not be the most friendly folk but we don’t chase people out as some people say. We give them a curious glance and that’s it. Maybe that makes people uncomfortable, all the better! It just means less people are coming. We are fiercely suspicious, however, it comes with the territory.  

I find they look very strange, the visitors. I don’t fancy their clothes or their speech, it’s… odd, unfitting, somehow. Once a while some of them stick around for longer, despite the looks we give them. The castles might be a bit mysterious but the town is in all regards quite boring. It shouldn’t suit their tastes at all! But eventually they all leave.

We had one stranger who didn’t talk to anybody, didn’t even try to be friendly. He was like a ghost, ignoring and being ignored. That got a few of the boys quite miffed because usually they are the ones doing the ignoring, me included. But what pissed us off even more was that he spent is time at the pub everyday! So it was impossible to ignore him! His face was buried in his books and he was writing something too, which is alright with me. He wrote feverishly for a couple seconds, pause, then then write some more. Some days he didn’t even touch a pen.

It got to a point that he became the town gossip and we were worried that he tried to settle in. Honestly he’d been staying so long that many people didn’t see anything wrong with it. He minded his own business which was how we liked it. One day, he suddenly started singing. Now, his singing wasn’t good, not like ours. His notes were inharmonious and disjointed but I had never heard anything like it before. It had a quality I couldn’t describe and I knew the boys felt the same way but were too afraid to say anything.

He hummed softly, then he became loud before lowering his voice again and then he was back on the pencil. We were all down right dumbfounded and we didn’t know wether to grab his wrists and throw him out or let him be or join in. The stranger kept singing and writing until his glass was empty. He only had the one beer, then left. That particular night, (I don’t know why I felt it, I had no reason the believe) but I felt like this would the last time I ever saw him so I stopped him at the door and said. “Friend, where did you learn such a beautiful song?”

His face suddenly turned scarlet as if he’d been caught by his pants down and he said in the most broken English. “I was singing?!”

© Christopher Stamfors