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A brand new edition of Life's Lottery - an exciting speculative fiction novel that invites the reader to assume the role of the protagonist!
A role-playing novel that reveals how small decisions can have monumental consequences. If you choose the right possibilities you may live a long happy life, or be immensely rich, or powerful, or win the lottery. If you make other choices you may become a murderer, die young, make every mistake possible, or make no impression on life at all. The choice is yours.
sniffle. ‘I was waiting to hear your vote.’ ‘You hadn’t made up your mind?’ She doesn’t cry. ‘No.’ ‘I don’t want to split up, Chris.’ ‘You want to get married?’ ‘No. Not yet.’ ‘When?’ ‘I don’t know.’ You leave it at that. And you leave. Feeling bloody rotten, you bolt for home. Only it’s not there, at least not for you. You drive down to Sedgwater and are almost in your old street when you remember the family house is gone. You turn round to drive out to Sutton Mallet. You think of
done, following clues unconsciously left throughout the text. Or, worse, you’d be so successful in excluding the one thing you didn’t want on the record that the book would be empty, worthless, impersonal. That’d be another betrayal, another spasm of treacherous cowardice, invalidating your last chance. The last chance to rush into the copse to help James. You feed a sheet of paper into your typewriter. Once, you type, I fucked a fourteen-year-old who was drugged out of her mind and didn’t know
and paid the lovebirds a visit last night,’ you suggest. ‘Oh,’ says Sean, who clearly hasn’t thought of that. ‘Make tea,’ James says. ‘We’re not short of water after last night. And we’ve enough PG Tips to survive worldwide eco-catastrophe.’ Sean gets busy. That night, you sleep in shifts. Three of you awake, three asleep. Sean wonders why not two and four, allowing longer uninterrupted sleeps. James asks him which of the others he’s sure enough isn’t a murderer to share a shift with. Sean
‘I don’t understand,’ you repeat. ‘Some people are saints,’ Sally Rhodes muses. ‘There must be some trick. He’s shed his identity to escape.’ ‘That’s exactly what he’s done.’ ‘No. I mean, escape with the money,’ you say. ‘I don’t think so.’ You can’t imagine it. You write Sally a cheque and leave. If you go home, go to 276. If you go to Tibet, go to 281. 261 ‘I’m not into this,’ you mumble, tasting the drink on your tongue. ‘I’m …’ Shearer’s eyes flash anger. ‘Thought you’d wind
from the cottage, go to 286. 270 Mary is right. You are still discovering her, the strength you give each other. She helps you and James through the crisis as your business almost goes under in the burst of appalling publicity. But the notoriety helps in a way. In a sick moment, you think of offering murder weekends at the Compound, site of the Shearer Slayings. That doesn’t come off but you realise some of your clients do find taking their survival course on blood-soaked ground adds