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I’m drinking whiskey. Or maybe he is drinking whiskey.

Thoughtful piece on the horrors of war.

CHICADEROCK

I think I can still hear the tinkling of ice cubes in my glass.

I’m drinking whiskey. Or maybe he is drinking whiskey. It’s a long time ago. I’m trying to knit the snippets together.

“But this isn’t about the village. It’s not what I ought to be writing about. I ought to be writing funny anecdotes about villagers and their escaping donkeys.” I tell myself firmly and turn my attention to the clouds in the sky instead. Villager O had explained to me that castle clouds predicted thunder.

The clouds are no longer just castles. They have taken on fortified proportions. A rumble in the distance. Villager T walks past with his horse and donkey. The sun has changed his face. His hair no longer grey, it’s white. “Cold isn’t it.” I shout. Our ongoing joke. We tell each other it is cold when it’s hot and visa versa…

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