The man who walks into the bar is young-- perhaps twenty, give or take a year-- and wearing that singularly absent expression common to many academics. He's using what appears to be the flat wooden lid of a pot or bowl as a surface on which to write, on crude yellowish paper with a leaky fountain pen, a series of furiously scribbled notes ( Read more... )

Dr. Lecter has always enjoyed the Goldberg Variations ( Read more... )

There's a calm, quiet young woman sitting in an armchair by the fire with a glass of water and a contemplative expression.

She would not be averse to company.

Mischa Lecter, dressed for a party in 1959, is sitting at the Bar. Heels, earrings, gloves, silk dress with petticoats underneath ( Read more... )

Some days, being a Companion has its perks.

Other days, it doesn't.

What Leigh sees the Bar as is an elaborate trick. An elaborate trick to make him believe that his room has actually disappeared, and possibly even reduce him to tears out of frustration.

"Okay, really, this isn't funny," he says, in a mildly irritated voice.

"I'd like my room back, ( Read more... )

There is a bar-shaped-place at the end of the universe. It is magical, illogical, defies description and begs for wonder and awe and questions.

The seventeen-year-old girl seat at the table is here for the second time. She is also doing what appears to be her homework.

It isn't.

She just likes trigonometry.