He thought the scarab was bad luck. I knew too little about omens to argue. He looked from the scarab to me and said, “This means something”.
After he was gone, I thought of him whenever I saw one. A man who could not breach his shell, purveyor of false portents, scavenging for his life.
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For the Fictionaut 55-word stories group.
like a beetle whose tentacles never leave.