Volume 1, Issue 2, May 31, 2006|
by Stephen L. Antczak
"Small people are tragic," Rain said.
Jule didn't know if Rain included him in that lot or what. He didn't really care. He nodded, thinking, Yes, Rain, whatever you say, and wished she would cut the breeze and sell him what he'd come to buy.
She stood at the window, looking down thirty stories.
"There are five million of them down there," Rain continued. "They all have their own small tragedies looming over them like dying suns."
Dying suns? Whatever. As long as she got to the point soon. His last bit of Luck had started to give out. He felt exceedingly uncomfortable in Rain's apartment. It was too clean; there was no detectable odor that he could remember each time he visited, nothing that would make her place seem even a tad familiar. The interior always changed, too. New furniture, new lighting (painfully bright right now), different pictures on the wall. Jule never bothered to look at the pictures other than to register that they were there. He watched Rain.
Even now, as he wished she would just do the deal so he could get the hell out of there, he was thinking, God, she's beautiful. He knew that her body had been bought and paid for in part with his money, but it didn't matter. Still beautiful.
Read the entire story:
Pure Luck (pdf)
Pure Luck (prc)
See our reading software link at left.
Table of Contents