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The blackened surface slicked by rain, reflects the light of a lonely street lamp. Well past the midnight hour, all are asleep in the house moved only by the ticking of a wary clock, the rain sliding mournfully down the window panes; the clicks and creaks never tracked down, but always there, in the house at night, when all is quiet. The house stands guard, lovingly sheltering those within it, awaiting one more occupant before falling into sleep. But he will never come home. He has died in the sheets of rain that sweep the road where the street lamp stands...staring at the huge oak tree across the way, suddenly, violently embraced by smoking metal, burnt rubber, dead flesh. It was a party. He stayed too long, had one drink too many. Soon... an urgent ringing of the bell, a flashing red, four children stunned to disbelief, a wife and mother gone to grief. A house that knows...it too has died. |
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