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Math Whiz (A Last Equation)

Writing haiku suited him, as numbers always had - like the blind who knew their way around at home - every stick of furniture in place. 5-7-5.

That night, driving back from a lecture on "Alternating Series", he saw the arc. Someone flick the cigarette from a car - the spattering, bouncing sparks: electric-cherry-red against the double black of night and tar. He fumbled for his pen to write it down, as the wheel turned just enough = The trucker in the next lane listening to the crates rattling about in the back, the ones he should have fastened better. Thinking, goddamn litterbug, as the cigarette struck - any beauty in the moment eluding him.

Story by:

Robert Scotellaro

submitted at 04:00am

27 April 2009