They always sat together in the great room. They had their favorite characters, their favorite seating, and their favorite loose teas. Their seats faced the big, front window, and they had the view of the walk and the morning activity outside. “Look at that guy. Isn’t that Dave?” “That’s what we call him, but his real name is Greg.” Mark took another sip of tea, and pointed another character out to Mavis. “Look at that bozo. That’s Buckles. He was so full of Oxycodone the other day that his eyes were bouncing around in his head like two, black marbles.”
Mavis rearranged her legs on the old couch, and picked up her notebook. She scribbled a few lines, took a sip of tea, and ranted about The King. The King was an older guy that always sat by the door to the hall. He surrounded himself with a couple of the most beautiful of the women, and spoke softly to them as they leaned in to listen. He had a mane of flowing white hair, and a Bolivian sweater over his silk slacks. He commanded the room and the attention of the women, as he wove his stories and related his exploits and exotic treks around the world.
No one but Mavis and Mark knew the true background of The King. The King was a retired insurance man, that was well read and a fan of The Travel Channel. He spun stories he cobbled together from stories he read or travelogues he saw on cable television. Anyone that met him thought he was amazing and brilliant, not knowing the true source of his wondrous and spellbinding tales.
Neither Mavis nor Mark exposed The King, feeling sorry for him, and empathizing with him to such an extent – knowing that The King, his audience, Buckles, Dave and they, themselves, were all residents of the same sanitarium.
~~
Pub. http://www.flash-fiction-world.com/empire.html 8 Jan., 2012
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I WILL REJECT ANY CHINESE OR JAPANESE IDIOMATIC WRITING, AUTOMATICALLY.