Bombs were the last thing on his mind. If he lost this poker game, it would be his death anyway. The lights flickered, the ceiling dripped and the cigarettes had long since expired. The gaunt janitor across from him wheezed in a satisfied rheumy way. There it is. His tell for a rotten hand.

The girl with the brown eyes sucked on her teeth. The bombs above loosed plaster from the ceiling and it salted her hair. She shook it off like a dog, her brow creased in concentration. She had been squinting the entire game, suffering her near-sighted bet that lost her specs.

The brawny man scratched his forearm. His eyes were jaundiced, but the shot glasses were empty.He was the embodiment of consumption.

And then there was me. The sad, scrawny nobody with nothing to bet but my escape ticket. It was my only way out. My Bomb.

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jadetine (joined about 12 years ago)
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Karen is an avid foodie/gamer/SFF reader who, despite existing for several years, has still not decided what she wants to be when she grows up.

Actually, Karen is an aspiring writer with a mysteriously irrelevant past. She spends her days laughing at the people still stuck in law school, ruminating over her engineering degree and coughing at the dust covering her collection of art supplies and musical instruments.

A Jill of all trades, yet master of none. Except for perhaps procrastination and awkward humor.

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Story information

License

Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0

genres

war crime gamble first person

tags

tense dark bombs gambling poker smoky

Prompt

Bombs were the last thing on his mind.
Prompt suggested by Galen

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