Perpetual Thursday Ramblings, Rantings, Nonsense, and Bunk
Samuel Elkwood
Monday, August 15, 2005
Samuel Elkwood
By Patrick J. Simmons
Mist curled its slow way through the library, around the ancient volumes, tomes of the works of Poe, Plato, Virgo, and Aquinas. Up the half rotted spiral staircase to where Professor Hayworth rested in a pool of blood, still clutching the dusty novel by some forgotten scribe. As he gasped for breath the cold figure of Samuel Elkwood, still clutching his pistol, leaned in and took the book. His face showed no emotion, his eyes were hard like steel. He opened the book, carefully removing the small silver key wedged between the pages and slipping into his pocket. He threw the book down to the floor as the professor breather his last breath. As the novel's resounding thud filled the air, Samuel felt it brush against his shoulder. He turned only to find himself starring at a quite shelve of books.
"The wind," though Samuel, "only the wind."
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