The smoke bellowed out from turbine one. The craft veered to the left violently. Gravity was taking over. The other turbine will also give up soon. Then it's free fall and then maybe a sickening crash, thought Zarkov. It was his first mission to Earth. Everyone had warned him of the perils of gravity. He never thought his turbines would die out on him. His craft had never acted this way on any planet. The oxygen would've done the trick. His craft's overheated turbines just ignited like flares. There goes the second turbine. It's time to activate the evacuation pod. A voice deep inside his mind begged him to stop. He tried to reason with that voice, but finally he gave in. Like his inner voice he too was determined to see what will be the end like.
I have to write. Those were the words that escaped the dying man's lips. He was found lying unconscious near a mountain of blank paper. His autopsy revealed over exhaustion as the reason. But what did he want to write so badly that it killed him, no one knows. The task was designated to the junior cop who was part of the investigation team. Let's call him Namura. So here we are with Namura in a room with the mountain of blank paper. He is awed as to why should there be so many papers near a dying man. He picks a sheet on the top. He studies it. It's as blank as blank papers can be. No pencil or pen has violated its virgin whiteness. Namura thinks of the white bed sheets back home. He is tired. All he wants is to crash on his bed. He feels angry about the whole situation. Here I am, staring at a blank piece of paper, wondering why someone who wanted to write so badly didn't write a single word, while the whole world is sleeping on their comfy beds. He wanted to tear the ...
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