The Din

Slowly the room filled as the filet of sunset cowered beyond the ocean's horizon. The hot urns delivered flavorful smells ripe with garlic and rosemary. Succulent fruit adorned trays begging to be rated yet too beautiful to touch. Plates filled and were carried about the rooms as eyes darted from name tags a nervous disposition clouding the air.

The music of voices played of each wall quietly growing as first one then another added to the number. The first ones there in halting conversation taking small bites off their plates not so much as to feed hunger as to cause a reasonable blockage to words. The pall lifted as the open spaces became smaller and laughter skirted between hugs that had awaited long months. 

Entrances varied between diminutive slinking to grand appraisals; one to conquer one just to survive. This was the first convention from Writers Cafe and the words floated above the crowd on the wings of the muse glad to be alive.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

I wondered what the occasion was, and when I found out it was a gathering of us, I smiled. That's one party I'd like to attend.

[...]

. oh ... wow ... what a stunning image this is ...

. now i want to join the din ... just because of this post ...