These times – a micro story

Landscape with mountains - Just like a Bob Ross painting

Just like a Bob Ross painting

The mountains ahead looked like they were painted by Bob Ross. Maybe you know him, he’s the guy who did these painting courses on tv. Incredibly skilled, a true craftsman. He clearly knew how to paint, even though his paintings wouldn’t probably be the ones you’d hang in your living room. Or anywhere else in your home. Or office. But still, it was amazing how with a only a few hand movements and a brush, he could create worlds in seconds. Inspiring, really. While looking at the mountains in the distance, how the intensity of their greys fade in the distance, the ones closer a bit darker than the ones that are clearly further away, you can almost hear his iconic voice, talking about where these little mountains live, and how you should push the paint right into the fabric of your canvas.
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42 years, 4 months and 8 days – a micro story

Calm water in the old port

Calm water in the port

Wind sweeps up the waves, that are crashing hard on the barriers protecting the old port. They do their jobs, these barriers, as the water inside of them is as tranquil as ever. Alexis stares at his float, waiting. Tourists see the beauty of it, and take photographs of the old man fishing. He doesn’t notice, his eyes and attention fixed, for now, on the float. It doesn’t move. Even if it did, he wouldn’t care very much. He’s not waiting for the fish to take his baitless hook in their mouths. He will buy a fish at the market later, to bring home for his wife to cook. As he has done basically everyday for, well, as long as he can remember.
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Old habits – a micro story

rakiandicestory

Old habits die hard, he noticed. Even though they seem to be forgotten, the live on, under the surface. Hidden. But it only takes a small gesture, to make them come out of hiding. He didn’t want to offend the local culture, and it was so long ago. It won’t be a problem. At least, that’s what he thought when he reached to pick up the small carafe the waitress customarily had brought after their dinner. As he pulled the stop and tipped the carafe to fill the tiny glasses with raki, his long forgotten habit was awakened. Without thinking he raised the glass, looked around the table, and downed it in one quick, aggresive move. Before he knew it, the carafe was empty. Four shot glasses of the stuff had made him a bit dizzy, but aching for more.
He noticed the glance of his long time friend, but chose to ignore it. Not drinking hadn’t been a problem for so many years, so it wouldn’t be now.
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A cup of Hugo-tea

She looks at her watch, not for the first time in the past ten seconds, and takes another sip of her tea, which she finished what seems am eternity ago, but can’t be more than five minutes. Or can it? Five more minutes. Maybe he thought it was at nine, not eight. Maybe it was at nine, and she was mistaken. Five more minutes, maybe ten. Then she would give up. On tonight, on him and on online dating. This was not the first time she was checking her watch every other second, and take sips from empty cups.
Again, her eyes scan the cafe.
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