That Election Business

Barnaby clutched the flyer, the paper damp with the morning mist that clung to the cobblestones. “Mayoral Election,” it declared in stark black, with a picture of a man whose smile seemed a little too wide, a little too sharp.

Barnaby knew the dangers of elections in this town. Years ago, a charismatic fellow promising sunshine had unleashed a plague of locusts. A woman advocating for cobblestone upgrades had brought about an infestation of rogue sentient pebbles. Barnaby, a cobbler by trade and a sceptic by nature, distrusted the whole business.

He shuffled inside, the bell over the door announcing his arrival. Mrs. Abernathy, with her perpetually grumpy cat perched on her shoulder, looked up.
“New shoes for the cat, Barnaby? Though judging by that flyer, he might be a better candidate than any running.”

Barnaby chuckled, a dry rasp. “Not this time, Mrs. Abernathy. Just some sole repair. What do you think of this election business?”

Mrs. Abernathy snorted. “Trouble, every time. But then again, what isn’t around here? You fix the shoes, Barnaby. We muddle through the rest.”

“It’s ALL cobblers to me Mrs A.”

Barnaby nodded, a wry smile playing on his lips. Perhaps Mrs. Abernathy was right. Maybe the real magic wasn’t in the promises of politicians, but in the quiet acts of mending, of making do, one cobbled step at a time.