Mr. Cravitts’ Book Store

A book shop that is no longer there

If we had been good for a whole month, father gave us each fifty-cents. My brothers tripped over each other to get to the candy or ice cream cone shop first. I went to Mr. Cravitts’ Book Store instead.

When the door squealed open, Mr. Cravitts’ parrot squawked, “Go out. Come In.“

A crookedly lettered sign, 5 books for .50, hung over several shelves in the darkest, dustiest corner of the shop. I piled books on the floor, sat down to chose my dreams and adventures.

Too soon, the parrot excitedly “chimed” “You’re early. You’re late.”

Reluctantly removing books from my lap, I slowly unfolded my legs. With five treasures in my book-bag, I left my .50 cents on the counter, slammed the door behind me and ran for home.

Winter — open coat flapping. Fall — scarf unraveling.  Spring – rubber boots splashing. Summer — floppy hat slipping.

In my attic office, there is an old battered bookcase stuffed with ragged, torn and much-loved books. Mr. Cravitts and his book shop are gone, but not his treasures. A crookedly lettered sign stands on the top of the book case: 5 books for .50.


Written for the January 25, 2015 edition of Sunday Photo Fiction so creatively and capably run by Al.