19 April 07 - 18:01CAFÉ SOCIETY
The steaming coffee urns could only compete with the samovars infusing tea.
The windows were misty with competing temperatures either side of them.
Late afternoon and Jack lounged back in the upright chair as he watched the waitress deliver coffee. In the old days, there were several of his old cronies at the same table but they had gradually expired (some in mid-chatter). Jack was alone with his thoughts … and dying dreams. The waitress smiled at him, a girl (far too young for him) with pleasant curves under her long day’s dishevelled overall, revealing a demeanour that suited the rather ‘posh’ ambiance this particular café provided. The place was a bit too good for Jack, but he always relished spending more than he should on his refreshments to suit aspirations for a degree of classiness otherwise tantalisingly beyond his grasp. ...
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14 April 07 - 18:57Owen's Damascus Road
As he wended his way through the endemic mists that coiled about the mountainside, the warrior thanked God that he had been able to negotiate the morasses along the upward path. His thigh boots still showed the signs of the clinging weed, like the remains of a consumptive giant’s deep cough.
Owen the Curd sweated. The higher air seared the flesh remaindered by his outfit with the slow-moving funnels of its relative cold. He’d been told to leave the Lower Lands as a representative of the Curd race because, self-evidently, the God could hear prayers more easily further up the mountain. However, nobody had dreamt that, because of the mists, the God would not be able to be seen so readily as from the villages in the valley, during such two-way conversations which, in these parts, prayers had long since become. Nevertheless, being a race particularly hard of hearing, many misconceptions had grown up concerning the God’s own responses in those interchanges. Hence, Owen’s mission. ...
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