Oh, but who will think of the hamsters?

Tuesday. The bartender had felt it in the air, the musty, warm air that filled his pub after the breath of the same 10 men who sat in the booths had been ruminating all day. But something was different, as it always was on Tuesdays. Cricket hadn't arrived yet. It was half past 8, half past his usual hour of complaining and his usual order of a martini, shaken.

"If it's good enough for Bond".

The door flew open, drenching the floor with rain as Cricket O'neil trudged in, sending mud and rain water all over the worn linoleum, stained with vomit and substances you could only describe as "sludge". He dragged his feet over to the bar, dropped his brief case on the seat next to him and dropped his sopping wet jacket on to the floor, as a puddle formed around his seat.

"MARTINI." he demanded,

"It was a long one today".

As the bartender made his drink he stared at the clock, tick tick ticking and got lost in its rhythm. The bartender placed a single olive in the drink in front of Cricket and snapped his fingers in front of his eyes,

"Oh has it?".

"Yeah."

Cricket sneered, narrowing his eyes. The bartender had always seen his craft as foolish, he had always had a cold heart, no empathy. He didn't see how it could ever tear a man like Cricket down, yet here he sits. Wasting his life away in the dingy, flickering light of the Pub, watching flies buzz around the other regular's head's.

"The stories, they all start to blend together after a while" he said as he sipped his drink, the grease from his lips leaving a print on the glass.

"I can't tell one from the other, the only difference is the names and even then..."

his eyes started to glaze over, the bartender knew the look well. He was deep in thought, seeing the faces of his clients and the sorrow in their expressions as they told him of their loved ones. The tears that dripped down their already tear-stained faces as he heard their voice crack and shake telling him what to carve into the gravestone they had requested.

Despite the deep emotions that went along with his craft, it remained his passion, what kept him going. The smooth stone felt clean, cool. The stone had an aura to it, as if it knew this was its final purpose. It knew the soul it would keep alive in the memory of its loved ones, it knew. But it was a deeply sad kind of knowing. Knowing that it would be the only thing left to remember that soul by and once it was gone, gone it would eventually be from the memories of their loved ones and gone would be the soul. As if it never existed.

This was the first Cricket had been back to his craft after taking a long break to mourn the loss of his own, Herbert. There wasn't much to be said of Herbert. He was always a fine hamster, living as well as he could. Running endlessly on his wheel, getting nowhere but still remaining diligent. Secretly wishing to see the world outside the confines of his tiny, wire cage. Cricket always treated him with the most respect and honesty he could but, as was inevitable, his time had come. It was an unfortunate death, death by dehydration. His water bottle had been accidentally placed just out of reach and, tried as he could, Herbert couldn't get a single drop. As he quickly drained the water left in his body by running endlessly on his beloved wheel, he dropped dead within a few hours of the misplacement.

As much as Cricket wishes he could bring his beloved Herbert back he knew he couldn't, he had seen it in his clients time and time again wishing for the same but he knew Herbert would only live in his memory from now on, his soul watching him from above. He had never been able to truly feel what his clients felt for their hamsters when they told him their names, they weren't Herbert. And as he said time and time again, the stories start to blend together and feel the same but they still wear away at a man, slowly, with time. Chipping away at his mind as he chiseled the names into the smooth miniature gravestones, leaving tiny paw prints on his mind just as their beloved furry friends once did.

He threw back the rest of the drink, taking a hard swallow and looking at the clock. 8:32.

"It's hard work, but it's honest work"

he said sombrely, listening to the pounding of the rain on the roof, leaking through the cracks and onto the floor. The ticking of the clock and the dripping of rain water started to join in unison, creating a melody of echos into the pub, leaving only his body in the pub and his mind in a place far, far away from here.

Authors note

In complete honesty this is the first time I've written a short story since 7th grade and as bad as I am, this was pretty fun. I honestly just want to treat my girlfriend to some ice cream and I'm a pretty broke 16 year old so I thought hey, why not be creative