Gold

Hong Kong 1985. Taihetre sat in a wide leather chair, his back to a small service door. To his right, the main door into the room. To his left, several patio doors, misted up. On his right was a small coffee table, gold edged, with a brass oil lamp on top of it. Also there was an ash tray. Taihetre tapped the ash off one of his Russian cigars.

"Gaitre!" he called.

Award Winning: Commended in the 1989 WHSmith's Young Writers' Competition

The Girl of Silken Gold

A hot, intensely sunny day. The sun struck down relentlessly on the ancient citadel of Mycenos. It spared no thought for bird, beast, or thing on its continual attack on the day. Under an olive tree in one of the few areas of shade that can be found at the height of the day, a man of uncountable age was enjoying a restful lunch. He sucked the remains of an olive, extracting the very last morsel of flesh from it's juicy body. He flicked the stone away where it made no sound landing. Pouring the remains of the gentle, smooth, fragrant wine into a glass, he lay back and allowed the cool refreshing liquid to trickle down his throat.