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Anaximander's Bottle

Copyright 2011, Paul Hawkins

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i

He lived in a large castle and was holding a symposium for the world's greatest minds. Until recently she had lived in a rented house with her eight-year-old son in the village in the foothills. Her rented space had been a house dominated by long one long room, and it had a poorly bricked-in front that anyone could tell had once been garage bays, and next to it was the empty office of the village's only internet provider, now vacant, and one could see through its window a single spartan desk and last year’s calendar.

But recently, and at his insistence, she had moved into the castle because he claimed there would soon be a flurry of activity he would need her help to manage, and the flurry did come – in fact, an avalanche of activity came – but aside from sorting a few papers for him, the demand of her permanent, physical presence was not justified.

He was a physically imposing man like an Irish wolfhound in human form - tall and stocky with a long large head. He had chestnut curled hair and his forehead was huge and there was a scar on one side. He spoke like a man of martial command and his eyes were perfectly round and always open one notch past his irises. He favored Prussian military dress, especially the knee boots and tight pants.

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