The Dice of Damascus
Syria. 950 words, 4 minute read. With Claude Sonnet.
The craps table stretched out before them, its felt surface a perfect representation of Syria. Cities rose from the green baize like tiny jewels; painted waves lapped at the Mediterranean coast. Ancient trade routes carved subtle patterns across the fabric, their golden threads catching the casino's flickering lights.
HTS huddled in the bathroom stall, crushing white pills between his teeth. The bitter taste of Captagon flooded his mouth as his pupils dilated and his hands began to shake with artificial confidence. When he emerged, his tactical vest was dusted with white powder and hung heavy with explosives.
At the table, a massive bear in a naval commander's hat loomed on the western shore. Russia's brass buttons gleamed as he methodically stacked chips on the don't pass line. Beside him, Iran twitched, his clerical robes rustling with each involuntary movement. Every few seconds, his head jerked to the right as he muttered "Death to America" under his breath. He put his chips on don’t pass with a spasm.
Syria, so transparent the casino lights seemed to pass through him, pushed forward a small pile of worn chips with trembling hands. "It's still my house," he whispered, though nobody seemed to hear.
"The house belongs to Allah," HTS said, his words coming rapid-fire now as the Captagon surged through his system, methamphetamine causing his heart to race and his fear to dissipate. His prayer beads clicked frantically against the felt as he snatched up the dice.
The first roll sent them tumbling across Idlib. Behind the table, a turkey in an expensive business suit gobbled protestations about terrorist backgrounds, but nobody paid attention.
The dice settled in Aleppo, and HTS's laugh carried an edge of mania.
For the second round, America slithered to the table, patches of old skin hanging loosely from its scales. Beneath them, new skin gleamed with different policies. Its tongue flicked out, tasting opportunity in the air. "Interesting strategy," it hissed, eyeing HTS's growing stack. "Very... moderate."
The Kurds stood beside America, trying not to stare as another layer of presidential skin sloughed off onto the casino floor. They placed their chips carefully on the pass line, forming a red and white barrier against Russia's dark stack.
Iran's head jerked violently. "Death to America," he muttered, then louder, "DEATH TO AMERICA!" His right eye twitched as he pushed more chips onto the don't pass line.
HTS rolled again, the Captagon making the dice dance in his hands. "Allah guides these dice," he declared, though his bloodshot eyes suggested other influences.
Russia adjusted his naval commander's hat and growled, "The Motherland remembers." Nobody asked what he meant.
The dice landed on Homs, and HTS began to cackle.
The final round drew new players like moths to flame. Ukraine limped to the table, bandages visible beneath its combat fatigues. Israel appeared like a shadow, and the other players instinctively leaned away from its gaze. Its eyes held the gleam of biblical prophecy and nuclear deterrence, darting rapidly between the other players as if calculating blast radiuses.
"Interesting game," Israel said softly, and Iran's tic grew more pronounced. "Mind if I place a bet on... survival?"
Russia's fur bristled beneath his naval commander's hat. Syria seemed to fade further, becoming almost invisible. America shed another layer of skin, revealing yet another policy shift beneath.
HTS lifted the dice for the final roll, prayer beads now replaced with a string of IOUs and secret agreements. The Captagon crystallized his focus until each pip on the dice seemed to contain an entire city's fate. Time stretched like pulled taffy as he released them, the ivory cubes spinning through stale casino air that reeked of olive oil and broken dreams.
The dice tumbled across the felt Syria, each bounce a revolution, each roll a changing tide. Past Homs, where children once played in ancient streets. Past Aleppo, where minarets now stood like broken teeth against the sky. The dice seemed to hesitate, as if even they feared the weight of destiny, before settling on Damascus with the soft finality of suicide drones meeting their marks.
The numbers blazed like victory flares in the night sky. HTS's pupils dilated further, black holes consuming the last vestiges of white. Around the table, his unlikely alliance of America, Israel, Ukraine, and the Kurds leaned forward, their shadows merging into a single dark mass on the casino floor. Russia's naval commander hat tilted dangerously as he saw years of strategy crumbling. Iran's tic became a constant spasm. Syria's transparent form began to dissolve entirely, like fog in morning sun.
But in that frozen moment of triumph, when all attention was elsewhere, Turkey exploded into motion. Its expensive suit ripped at the seams as wings spread like storm clouds, knocking over drinks and scattering chips. The turkey's eyes blazed with Ottoman memories as it launched itself across the table, its tailored pants still caught on one scaly leg. Its talons dug into the felt Damascus, shredding HTS's victory into green confetti. The bird's wild gobbling rang through the casino like an air raid siren, and in the chaos of feathers and chips and spilled dreams, the dice disappeared entirely.
Later, they would find one die lodged in the West Bank, the other lost somewhere in the refugee camps across the Turkish border. But by then, new players would be approaching the table, and the game would begin again.
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