L'aura del Campo

A bushel of kumquats

A bushel of kumquats

Quentin had run out of coins. Not a problem if he didn't want to eat. He stroked his wispy goatee. The shopkeepers frowned on begging. The jail wasn't fit for a queen. He gazed at his tiara. It had served him well; it would stave off starvation for a week or more. Quentin sauntered to the pawnshop and handed it over. How much? They dickered until someone else came in. Quentin left with a bushel of kumquats, coins jangling in his pockets. Glum, he went to the corner to sell them. Not here, a young man said pointing to a sign. Over there. Quentin sat down on an old bench where it said "free barter zone only" and waited for a customer, careful not to whistle.

© Kåre Enga [175.261] (11.oktober.2018)

126 words as of 10/12

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