These tiny flash fiction pieces are becoming a regular thing. This one is again on the micro level at just 146 words. The featured image was posted in a Facebook group with the prompt of “Who owns this shop? Who are the clients? Is it clean and uncluttered or is there no telling what you’ll find?” Everything I started grew way too long, so I’d shelve it and come at it from a different angle. The core always remained the same. Let me know if you recognize who our bar owner is!
Everyone was welcome at The Temple. The warm amber lights beckoned both commoner and connoisseur, inviting them in to peruse its shelves, sample its wares, and take home a bottle or can or carton. Executives discussed the subtle differences in brands of single malt whisky with college students. A homeless man waxed poetic about the flavors of the Belgian lambics he drank during the war. A gaggle of suburbanites took Instagram photos. Deon watched it all with a smile.
If a man’s home was his castle, then this was his church. A place where all who entered loved him for the salvation he offered, ephemeral and fleeting though it was. He counted their coins, listened to their woes, and drank in their worship.
And the old ones said there was no place in this modern world for the gods. They just didn’t know how to adapt.