Young Writers Society

'Tom's Pub', the faded white paint on the sign says. The sign itself is starting to come loose from the wall, rusted nails straining to hold it up. The building used to be a office once, before the pandemic. Now the glass windows have been boarded up, what used to be the reception area a lifetime ago makes up the pub itself, and the back rooms where employees busily typed away on keypads have been converted into motel rooms, a dirty mattress on the floor the extent of their comforts. 

Behind the bar stands an unsmiling woman, a Middle, near the older end of that particular group. Her clothes are faded and patched and her hair is a dull shade of red in a messy pixie cut. She brings an imitation cigarette to her lips, breathes out a puff of smoke and stubs out the cigarette on the counter. Chipped nails quietly tap out a tune on the counter as she surveys the room with its many dirty tables and partly broken chairs.

It's mostly empty - the residents of the town having retired to their homes for the night -  aside from one table in the corner, where six travelers sit, wrapped up in a game of poker. They're an odd, mismatched collection of people, the candlelight casting curious shadows on their faces. First, the woman sitting directly facing the counter. She's young for an Elder, maybe late forties with streaks of grey only just starting to creep into her blonde ponytail. Blue eyes peer out from behind the cracked lenses of her glasses, their pink frames oddly childish. She has the largest pile of the bottlecaps they are betting with in front of her. Earlier that evening she had introduced herself as Lara Batimon.

On her immediate left are two more Elders, twin brothers in their mid-sixties, each with a shock of white hair. Both have their eyes firmly fixed on their cards. The one directly next to Lara is grinning, the other scowling. The two appear to have combined their caps into one pile which doesn't quite match the size of Lara's, and the scowling brother elbows his twin in the side as he goes to toss a handful of the chips into the centre. One of the brothers introduced himself as Byron, the other Alton, but no one at the table remembers which is which, and no one wants to admit they have forgotten.  

On Lara's right side sits the only Middle at the table. He's a rather small, nervous man whose brown hair keeps falling in his eyes. His left hand shoots up to tuck it behind his ear in yet another futile attempt to control it, while his eyes read over his cards again and again, as if he believes looking at them enough times will somehow change what's written on them. Despite his nerves he has a fairly respectable pile of caps in front of him. His name is Miles Aldridge and he's thirty-five, something he's informed the table of twice now. He's also the one who provided the deck of cards. 

Finally, across the table from Lara sit two Afters, young women in their twenties. One is tall with auburn hair halfway down her back, the other is shorter, with her dark hair cut so that it just brushes her shoulders. Like the brothers they are sharing their pile of caps. Unlike the brothers they are both whispering and giggling to each other. Each has a rather plain ring on her left hand, salvaged from somewhere. The tall one is named Kelly Tutton, while the short one's name is Rhona Bates. They have the smallest pile of caps, but neither seems to care.

The game has been going on a while and it is long past nightfall, but none of the six show any sign of wanting to leave the table. Still, the conversation has been winding down for the past hour, and is now almost entirely commentary on the game. Another round begins. Kelly and Rhona swap to sharing their cards so that they can hold hands under the table. The scowling man rolls his eyes at this and his brother elbows him in the side in response. "We were all young once, Byron." 

The scowling man, now revealed to in fact be Byron, huffs derisively at this, but takes his brother's hint to remain silent. Lara readjusts her cards, smirking a little. A bead of sweat rolls down Miles' face and drips off the end of his nose. He proceeds to light a cigarette in response. After a quick double take he offers the box around the table. Alton takes one and lights it up himself, while the rest decline with various levels of politeness. An intense, but somehow companionable silence sets over the table while they all refocus on the game. 

Another hour slips by. Lara wins the last of the caps. The table collect up their cards and hand them back to Miles, who carefully slips them back into their box before replacing it into his bag. Byron stretches out. Kelly and Rhona sneak a kiss, while the rest of the table pretends not to notice. No one knows what to do now, but no one wants to leave either. Finally Lara takes a long gulp of cheap whiskey - the only beverage available at Tom's pub - wrinkles her nose at the taste and clears her throat. "As the winner I propose a trade. A story for a story." 

The other five lean in, interested to hear what she means. Even the bartender has now moved over to the table, pulling up a chair so that she can better hear. "It can be about any time, any place you like, as long as it's about you," she continues, pushing her glasses higher up her nose as she speaks. "I'll start, shall I? I remember the day I first heard about the pandemic, I was on a school trip to England."