They\u2019re not magic dice.<\/p>\n
Stanley stares at the pair of them. Brass, he thinks, or bronze — he\u2019s not sure he knows the difference. Could be just gold paint. Staring at him on the bedside table, right under the lamp, in front of the clock, beside the book he\u2019s been reading.<\/p>\n
Outside, a storm rages. Lightning flashes and flashes, the thunder won\u2019t stop, the rain smacks the window in waves. But the bed is warm. Promising, if lonely.<\/p>\n
Inside, it\u2019s warm, the lights are still on — though not many of them. It\u2019s not quite midnight. There\u2019s no need to get up early in the morning.<\/p>\n
And there\u2019s the dice.<\/p>\n
He dreamt once — it couldn\u2019t have been just last night — that\u2019s he\u2019d rolled a pair of dice just like the two sitting on his table now.<\/p>\n
He\u2019s not a gambler. Maybe the occasional lottery ticket, but only on a whim. He doesn\u2019t even know the rules of craps. Last time he touched dice was probably for an exciting, whiskey-fueled game of college Yahtzee.<\/p>\n
He hasn\u2019t seen the inside of a college classroom in quite a while.<\/p>\n
He barely remembers the dream. There was no wager, not that he calls, no prize, nothing. If he saw what he rolled, he doesn\u2019t retain that information.<\/p>\n
Dice have no special meaning for him. His father wasn\u2019t a gambler, either. His mother didn\u2019t spend her weekends in Atlantic City. He\u2019s never even been in a casino. He never understood the point of Monopoly. He prefers crosswords. He works them in ink, not pencil.<\/p>\n
But he doesn\u2019t throw dice. He doesn\u2019t shoot dice. He doesn\u2019t toss them. He\u2019s not a bone-rolling kind of guy.<\/p>\n
He\u2019s trying to remember if the table had been clear when he turned on the light. He doesn\u2019t know. The dice might have been sitting there the whole time. But surely not since that long ago or maybe recent dream.<\/p>\n
He\u2019s also listening for any sound that might suggest he\u2019s not alone in the apartment. There\u2019s only the thunder, and the rain, relentless sounds that drown out anything else.<\/p>\n
So he checks the place. He doesn\u2019t bother with a baseball bat; he generally doesn\u2019t keep one near the bed. Living room, kitchen, bathroom — they\u2019re all empty. It\u2019s just him in the apartment. He knows he didn\u2019t put them there.<\/p>\n
Back in the bedroom, he stares again at the dice. They\u2019ve been set on snake eyes — a pair of ones. Is that supposed to be a bad thing? An ill omen?<\/p>\n
He doesn\u2019t know.<\/p>\n
Eventually, as no answer presents itself, and since he\u2019s not even sure of the questions, he lays down in bed — facing away from the dice — and tries to sleep.<\/p>\n
He can try to blame the storm, but that\u2019d be a lie. He can\u2019t keep his eyes closed. He watches the light show through his window for a while, thinks about maybe going to a movie tomorrow, or making a big breakfast, but he can\u2019t escape the dice.<\/p>\n
He turns over. Lying on his side, he glances at the dice. They mock him. They don\u2019t move, don\u2019t really do anything at all, but just their presence is a tease. It\u2019s as if they\u2019re saying, \u201cWe dare you to pick us up.\u201d<\/p>\n
What\u2019s the worst that can happen? It\u2019s not like he\u2019ll roll these brass dice and open up some interdimensional portal and release a legion of demons upon the earth on this otherwise peaceful stormy night.<\/p>\n
He can\u2019t keep his eyes closed. Even after turning out the lights, the constant lightning makes the dice flash like a cat\u2019s eyes in the dark.<\/p>\n
\u201cFine,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n
Stanley scoops up the dice.<\/p>\n
They\u2019re heavier than he expected, and colder, though he wouldn\u2019t say frozen. They click between his fingers when they touch. No depth to the sound. No resonance. Nothing to compete with the thunder.<\/p>\n
He moves them around in his hand, getting a good feel for them, warming them up, learning absolutely nothing. He blows into his fist for luck. Isn\u2019t that what they do? He thinks he should say something about shoes, but he doesn\u2019t understand the reference.<\/p>\n
Reluctantly, and with perhaps a small degree of anger, Stanley releases the dice on his bedside table. They bounce and clatter, they knock into the side of his book.<\/p>\n
One lands on a four, the other a five.<\/p>\n
Nine.<\/p>\n
He doesn\u2019t think that would be a willing roll in craps. Shouldn\u2019t that be a seven or an eleven or something?<\/p>\n
Did the storm pause in that moment before he threw them? No. Only his imagination paused.<\/p>\n
No interdimensional portal comes up. No demons emerge. Nothing changes.<\/p>\n
They are, after all, just dice. There\u2019s nothing magical about them.<\/p>\n
When he finally falls asleep, Stanley dreams of throwing dice and rolling bones.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"