Ring Of Writers
The Bookstore.

by: Byzanthium
	   she looks on ... eyes like a porcelain doll ... the white so perfect ... glossy ... such a
           gesture captured, she reaches up to shield her pristine gaze from the light that streams
           beyond the view ... she smiles ... the girl... swatted in oils ... she is like so always ...
           Everyone who walks by speculates just what she has to smile about ... after all if you
           hung there, motionless ... watching all the people pass by.. witnessing the conversations
           reeking through the substance that fills the little store ... (that once may have been air) ...
           dust and smoke and the pungent scent of treasure hunting... all walls of books ... all the
           people so unique in their quest to be normal ... speaking, laughing ... day in and out ...
           would you smile so? One of the old gentlemen, one certain Monsieur Allen Wishenski,
           walks in ... as if drawn through the door to the beacon of the coffeetable, already set with
           chess pieces ... their cool marble surface calls to him ... so he sits down ... and the
           moment grants a pleasant coincidence by bringing another fanatic to the table as well...
           William ... Willy ... Will ... so many dreams ... so much to do ... but always having the time
           for a game of chess or a cold beer ... you know what people say about him? ... that he
           knows how to live ... the chess board is sucking the people out of the street and into the
           cozy atmosphere of the shop's belly ... there, it seems, they all forget why they were
           running ... what must be done and how ... the forget or ignore ... either way, they simply
           take in each breath... and drunk with the very concept ... simply live ... thus you can not
           ignore but simply admire the power of the place ... maybe that is why the girl in the
           painting smiles so... now, every once in a while a new face peeks in  full of curiosity ...
           an air of excitement of finding a refuge from the heat or snow ... and as Allan ... they
           never really leave again ... each person seems to leave a minute trace behind ...
           (sometimes not quite minute enough, as the coffeecups from the coffeehouse next door
           pile, scattered by the chair legs ... filled with cigarette buts and stuff not meant to be
           defined)... Queen to A4 ... how lovely ... Alice! the white rabbit calls from the back ... the
           giggles that follow prove once more that "breeding like bunnies" is still not obsolete... then
           behind the quickly disappearing head of died hair, another person enters ... lets call him
           Jo ... for he seems to lack a consistent calling ... with him is THAT GIRL !!! the nerve ...
           after all that has occurred and all that was said ... strange how the unforgivable seems
           not to matter after the moment steals away into past? ... Jo always had a past but never
           any real substance to it ... and all know him but not of him  is it not amazing that a
           person so surrounded by others can still preserve his anonymity ? ... in this computerized
           age it is quickly becoming a very reserved privilege to exist solly as a number ... He
           walked in one day and sat down among the fingered volumes ... smiled at the still girl ...
           nodding to her warm coloured welcome ... he then proceeded to pick up and shuffle
           through every other volume present at arms reach ... (a well recognized initiation ritual of
           the addictive membership of the Prospero's Associates as well as not so lucky additions
           of the addicts there in) ... since then... well ... self-explanatory ... Now the girl is a
           different story ... seems she has been here as long as the dust on the books and the dirty
           coffee cups ... but no one knows her ... they all know of her ... of her voice on open mike
           night ... of her clove smelling dreads ... of her flowered skirts weaving endlessly about the
           street... we all know even of her taste for certain men ... but why is she with Jo today will
           not be revealed by any number of inquiring glances from Will ... Willy ... William ... she
           smiles ... and walks out of the shop ... Check! and Jo, poor Jo ... enticed by her lips is
           forced to give up the temporary sense of comfort ... if he only resisted! ...if he but smiled
           at her in return and sat down by the chess board loitered by lost strategies ... if only he
           did something ... poor sheep Jo ... it looks like he won't earn himself today ... she already
           has ... Check Mate!!! Allan leaves ... the bus has come. 

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