A loud bang shattered the silence of the night. Must be the outlaws, she thought. There was another bang, this time closer. Now she heard strange noises coming up her drive way. Another bang, and she almost dropped the milk pail in her hand. A cold sweat broke. She started shivering. Like a ghost she glided towards the front window and peeped out. There she saw him. He was a huge man. Looked like he was bending over in submission. She couldn't make out what was happening in the dark. Then she heard him mutter under his breath, "Darn these carburettors".
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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