Received: from nobody by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with local (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1cHZLk-00089l-Nn for lojban-newreal@lojban.org; Thu, 15 Dec 2016 08:57:44 -0800 Received: from [170.178.178.131] (port=43392 helo=holdmyfortune.com) by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with esmtp (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1cHZLj-000890-0J for lojban@lojban.org; Thu, 15 Dec 2016 08:57:44 -0800 Date: Thu, 15 Dec 2016 10:21:21 -0700 Subject: Todays-lotto-winner reveals next weeks winning-numbers: 11233724 From: "Andrew Wise" Content-Type: text/html; charset=us-ascii To: Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit Message-ID: Mime-Version: 1 X-Spam-Score: -0.4 (/) X-Spam_score: -0.4 X-Spam_score_int: -3 X-Spam_bar: / monster tricks for this 8-Time Lotto-Winner Tells Matt
Lauer How Hes-Won So Many Times
Before purchasing his tickets, Matthew Stender knows the exact numbers before even starting.

"It somehow keeps working over and over"

He says this works about 92-percent of the time
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He held up the feather. A peregrine falcon, he said. Theyre amazing creaturesthe fastest birds on earth. Theyre like shapeshifters, the way they streamline their bodies in the air. The name was just a weird coincidence, but it left me with an uncanny feeling I couldnt shake. Over breakfast, I began to wonder if Id given up too easily. Though it was true there was no one left alive whom I could talk to about my grandfather, there was still the house, a lot of it unexplored. If it had ever held answers about my grandfatherin the form of letters, maybe, or a photo album or a diarytheyd probably burned up or rotted away decades ago. But if I left the island without making sure, I knew Id regret it. And that is how someone who is unusually susceptible to nightmares, night terrors, the Creeps, the Willies, and Seeing Things That Arent Really There talks himself into making one last trip to the abandoned, almostcertainlyhaunted house where a dozen or more met their untimely end. It was an almosttooperfect morning. Leaving the pub felt like stepping into one of those heavily retouched photos that come loaded as wallpaper on new computers: streets of artfully decrepit cottages stretched into the distance, giving way to green fields sewn together by meandering rock walls, the whole scene topped by scudding white clouds. But beyond all that, above the houses and fields and sheep doddering around like little puffs of cotton candy, I could see tongues of dense fog licking over the ridge in the distance, where this world ended and the next one began, cold, damp, and sunless. I walked over the ridge and straight into a rain shower. True to form, I had forgotten my rubber boots, and the path was a rapidly deepening ribbon of mud. But getting a little wet seemed vastly preferable to climbing that hill twice in one morning, so I bent my head against the spitting rain and trudged onward. Soon I passed the shack, dim outlines of sheep huddled inside against the chill, and then the mistshrouded bog, silent and ghostly. I thought about the twentysevenhundredyearold resident of Cairnholms museum and wondered how many more like him these fields held, undiscovered, arrested in death; how many more had given up their lives here, looking for heaven. By the time I reached the s home, what had begun as a drizzle was a fullon downpour. There was no time to dally in the houses feral yard and reflect upon its malevolent shapethe way the doorless doorway seemed to swallow me as I dove through it, the way the halls rainbloated floorboards gave a little beneath my shoes. I stood wringing water from my shirt and shaking out my hair, and when I was as dry as I was going to getwhich was not veryI began to search. For what, I wasnt sure. A box of letters My grandfathers name scribbled on a wall It all seemed so unlikely. I roved around peeling up mats of old newspaper and looking under chairs and tables. I imagined uncovering some horrible scenea tangle of skeletons dressed in fireblackened ragsbut all I found were rooms that had become more outside than inside, character stripped away by moisture and wind and layers of dirt. The ground floor was hopeless. I went back to the staircase, knowing this time I would have to climb it. The only question was, up or down One strike against going upstairs was its limited options for quick escape (from squatters or ghouls or whatever else my anxious mind could invent) other than hurling myself from an upperstory window. Downstairs had the same problem, and with the added detractor of being dark, and me without a flashlight. So upstairs it was.