The Tomb At Starocel

The silence around the Thracian stones was so intense that Jamie could hear his footfalls on the sandy soil. What rites had taken place up here, to cast their memories down the future so? Magic tingled in the very air, the landscape not brooding, but waiting to be awakened once more, holding its breath in expectation of life restored. Climbing carved stone steps scaled to something slightly more than human, he approached the dark profundity of the beehive tomb lurking in the heart of the hill. Seeking to understand, he wondered if he could be more than just another tourist.

From Guest Contributor Alastair Millar

Drinking

There was a time that drinking carried with it a thrill. The flash of acceptance by his peers, the risk of being caught.

Then it became a habit. An expectation, though not a conscious one. It was just a part of everyday life, like the friends he no longer really connects with, but finding new friends seems complicated and lonely.

Now it is no longer drinking. It is alcohol, and he needs it to not feel sick, to not hate himself.

Maybe he should quit. But that strikes him as uncomfortable. Better just to not think about it too much.