Asif lay dying. His calm lucidity surprised him, as he'd always imagined the end to be either one of immediate oblivion or a painful descent into unrelenting pain, torment and gnashing of teeth. He contemplated whether to renounce his atheism to an unseen deity.
The cliché flash of his life was triggered by his concern over its absence. Mother, father, unwanted church wedding, counseling, divorce. He chuckled at the irony. In the next moment, epiphany struck!
Manifestation by conscious creation. Fool! Why did it take him this long to realize? With his final breath, he offered supplication to the pantheon.
Rodney Carruthers had gotten away with murder, but he couldn't escape his fate. Terry's tumble had culminated in a lifeless heap at the foot of the stairwell. He had called 911 immediately, just in case.
Paramedics told the story with their eyes and slow, deliberate movements. The Medical Examiner made the call. Rodney was comforted, left alone to deal with his loss.
After the funeral, Terry's sister had dropped the bombshell: six weeks pregnant. Rodney couldn't believe his misfortune. No matter what, it seemed that Burton Twyford's girls were determined to have his babies. Time to plan murder number two.
Tim squirmed. Sweat trickled relentlessly down his back. Perhaps it was the tension of the dealer's king of clubs. More likely, it was the heat from his wife, glaring alternately between his hunched shoulder blades and his decimated pile of chips. He ignored her – the devil was in the details.
Superstitiously confident, he eschewed strategy and split his sixes. The dealer snapped off an eight and a six. Tim stood on fourteen and doubled down on the pair of sixes – violating yet another maxim. He smiled as a third six appeared.
The dealer revealed his hole card. Queen of clubs.
Texte: Mitchell H. Allen
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 31.03.2012
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