alisonlittleblog

https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js?client=ca-pub-4000887400212447

Love of the Second Hand is a piece of flash fiction about memory, chance encounters, and the quiet magic of second-hand books. Set in a Liverpool charity shop on Smithdown Road, the story weaves nostalgia for childhood storytelling—Arabian Nights, cassette tapes, and shared family rituals—with the warmth of an unexpected connection between two strangers. Through the tactile joy of old books, conversations about parenting, music, and modern feminism, this short story explores how literature bridges generations and how brief moments can linger long after we walk away. Perfect for readers who love literary flash fiction, nostalgic storytelling, and character-driven encounters rooted in everyday life.

Love of the Second Hand

The book was beautifully bound, impeccable, and full of the love of having been read. A modern publishing of the classic Arabian Nights. I had the audio version once—what we used to call tapes—when I was a child. My brother and I inherited them from a cousin and played them endlessly on our one-speaker cassette player, the kind every flat seemed to have then.

My favourite story was Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, because my name was Ali and because it felt like magic made personal. Today there are countless personalised children’s books, but in the eighties that coincidence felt extraordinary. Arabian Nights has been reproduced many times, but this copy was something special.

My fingertips traced the arches of the front cover. Somewhere nearby, low and tuneful, a song I didn’t recognise was being sung. I was in one of the larger charity shops at the top of Liverpool’s Smithdown Road. Books lined the window, and I never managed to pass without going in. I turned toward the sound.

Before me stood a man: effortlessly cool, more in manner than dress. Still, not bad looking—ginger hair, a contemporary matching ’tash. Shorter than me, but broad, solid. As I turned, he stopped singing.

“No—don’t stop!”

I insisted.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t realise I was singing out loud. I’m working through lyrics for the band’s new track.”

“So you sing in a band, then?”

I tried not to sound impressed.

“Lead vocals. Among other things. Engineering work. And lone parent of two teenagers.”

I glanced at the copy of Steven Gerrard’s biography in his hand.

“Is that for you?”

“No, for my son. I’m picking up books for them now—real Christmas presents come later.”

He explained he was trying to encourage his son to read, and always bought a book for his daughter too, because she read more of his books than he did, as well as her own.

I scanned the shelves, looking for a suggestion for a teenage girl, and spotted a hardback: Feminists Don’t Wear Pink.

“This is good for teenage girls,” I said. “It’s new out—still fresh in Waterstones. Surprised it’s second hand already.”

He picked it up confidently. Flicked through. Then stopped and read aloud:

“The first time I looked at my vulva in the mirror…”

He froze.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this as a parent yet.”

I took the book from him and skimmed a few headings.

“Yes,” I said. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it? Is this what teenage girls are reading now?”

“I think I’ll go with this one,”

he said quickly, holding up I Am Malala.

“Good choice. I’ve read that—it’s really good. Her life in Pakistan, and everything leading up to her being shot by the Taliban.”

He looked genuinely enthused, smiling.

“I might read it after her.”

I smiled back, softly.

“I think I’ll get the pink feminist book,” I said. “Keep up with what the younger generation’s thinking. Maybe just in small sections.”

We paid separately but left together. At the door we paused, smiling at one another.

“See you again sometime,” he said.

“Yes…”

I walked toward Allerton, past the Salvation Army playing Christmas carols. My smile stretched ear to ear, and I chuckled quietly to myself.

This article contains affiliate links, which means I may earn a small commission if you click through and make a purchase — at no extra cost to you.