John lounged in a corner of Lucy's. John never sat; he lounged. His right arm was thrown over the back rest of the booth, while the rest of his body seemed to hang down from it. His left shoulder rested comfortably against the wall and the right foot peeked out from under the table. The ever-present cigarette dangled from his finger tips. He was clean-shaven, which was the only remarkable thing about seeing him in his usual corner of the diner.


The dappled shade under the mango trees triggered two very conflicting emotions. Firstly, it signalled the possibility of juicy fruit. Secondly it signalled fear - he was somewhere he ought not to be, and must therefore, be very careful. The dry leaves from the trees threatened to crunch underfoot. The problem with leaves crunching wasn't so much as giving his existence away; a regular crunch-crunch meant he wouldn't be able to hear others approaching. He had long mastered the art of walking in spurts, with dragging motion, continually listening for any approaching footsteps.

Word of Gods

The morning light dappled across his face as he sat bare-chested, meditating. There was calming silence about him, it was almost as if even the wind and the waves knew to be restrained. The room was small and bare, a single block of stone wide enough for a man to sit on, a pot of water in the corner and two massive windows with grills to the north and east. The room itself was at the north eastern corner of the hillside, the last human accomplishment before the abrupt fall of the hillside towards a sheer cliff and the sea.