Breakfast

From Saturday


Breakfast,
Was always a lively affair at the Masons and this morning, more so as the butterfly was the Centre of attention, none of them had seen one quite like it and whatever genus it was, it had no business emerging in winter.
Meanwhile she did her best to dry her self off and test her wings in the confined space of the match box in which Tim had placed her when the breakfast gong had sounded. She was disorientated and deathly afraid, for what her mind was telling her was completely at odds with where she was and that she ought to have been long since dead in some much warmer climb rather than alive in a miserable little ‘box’- she thought the squealer had called it.
Jeremy had the stone in the palm of his hand and reported that it was very warm, the little hot ball of fury muttered silently “That’s because I have a heart, a mind; you were right to feel afraid, Mr Francis, the mist has cleaved the Crack between sentience and the unknowing and has gifted us with self-awareness and I have somewhere to go and this young pebble of yours has interrupted my journey we are children of Abraham and have come to wreak our wroth. ”.
Of course all this was completely wasted on Frank who sat musing in the arm chair tossing the rock gently up and down, other than realizing that it was getting hot to the point of searing his palm, which, in his reverie, he had so far failed to notice.

to the Remembrance Stones

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