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Philip Jones pulled his mackintosh tight around his chest and leaned into the briny wind. The wind was not only briny, it was also chilly, damp, and overall a bit ominous. No matter. Philip had important business to attend to, business that could mean either the realization of certain lifelong machinations, or the leveling thereof to their component parts, or some form even more basic than those, putting him not just at square one (oh, if only he could guarantee only going back to square one, heíd have never undertaken those machination so many years ago!), but at some even lower level. The November skies lowered menacingly, adding to the windís ominousness a value of ominousity at least equal to its own. A loonís call echoed off a particularly hard and low cloud. Beneath the skies, barren blasted hills loomed in a way that really made you nervous. Philip rushed on across them anyway, because that would be a short cut. Short cuts, Philip grimly thought, thatís whatís gotten me into this mess in the first place. The End.
Date Written: July 18, 2005
Average Vote: 3.5