Below are the first few paragraphs of story.
The years passed faithfully, each one much like the last, and yet each distinctive and filled with its own memories. George Duncan, known simply as Duncan since his first year of school, sat in his large recliner. Though the chair was old and tattered, the fabric was woven with far too many memories to discard. Duncan, currently in the eighth decade of his life, had never felt the cold beneath his skin as he did now. But, somehow, sitting in his chair, gazing through the window, and thinking about the past seemed to warm him as the sun set outside.Click here to continue reading the rest of "A Prisoner of Time."
Duncan’s mind often wandered over his decades as a feared criminal defense attorney. On some days he would laugh out loud as images of a floundering witness succumbing to his blazing cross-examination replayed in his mind. Other days were filled with deep reflection on those few times during his career when mistakes had led to perpetual recollection and regret. Despite the innumerable and varying memories from which to select, one image drifted uninvited into his mind more than any other during the many days he spent in that timeworn chair, the face of his client Billy Brandon. As that face flickered in his consciousness once again, Duncan’s hands clenched in anger and anxiety.
“Duncan. Duncan, dear,” his wife, Martha, called from the kitchen. “It’s time for dinner.”
“Just a moment,” Duncan responded as he unbound his hands and strained to push himself up from his seat.
Once standing, he paused and gazed out the window for a final second. Then, turning to face a large bookcase at his side, Duncan reached out and withdrew a massive leather bound edition of a Dostoyevsky classic. After using both hands to lower the literary masterpiece onto a small library table, Duncan lifted the front cover to reveal the book was actually a safe. Reaching into the hollow middle, he pushed aside a piece of paper and withdrew a heavy black revolver. Holding the gun in his hand and spinning the chamber, he took note of the four bullets and two empty shells still lying in the cylinder.
“After these many years,” Duncan said aloud, yet in a whisper, “my representation will finally come to an end. Until tomorrow, Mr. Billy Brandon.”
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