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Where Obsolete Gods Go To Drink

It is a tavern on the edge of a lopsided mountain. And since most have lost the ability to fly, or even levitate, if ever they had it to begin with, they walk the long bramble-studded path to the summit.

There are the usual stories of fear and trembling; offerings of fruit and dead virgins and slit-throat goats taken for granted. The good old days when you could spit on someone's head and they'd thank you for it.

The barmaid was once a goddess and every so often she smacks down a pint of ale and lightening cracks the glass and burns a hole through the bar, and everyone freezes mid-sentence, then laughs.

"There is always something left", one comments, taking out a deck of cards, fanning them face down.

"Here," he says, wizened in his robes. "Pick one".

Story by:

Robert Scotellaro

submitted at 5:41am

25 September 2011