The airliner is in a steep dive, just seconds from slamming into the ocean. Michael, seat belt buckled, follows instructions and braces for impact. No one should suffer this kind of all-consuming fear.
There is a white space. An angel kneels before a white shimmering veil. Michael slips through the veil into the angel’s arms. Her wings fold into a warm embrace, an embrace like a thousand comforting arms.
He comes out of his hypnotic trance and sits on his doctor’s couch. Doctor: “How do you feel, Jason?” “I have a story to share with you, and a few questions.”
Danny looked at the products in the shop excitedly. “This one’s remote-controlled AND portable … ”
“Right … ” Libby’s expression could only be described as dubious.
” … with a range of sixty meters!”
“Useful as a chocolate kettle.”
“Seriously, it’s great!”
“Ohhhh-kay … when you’ve made the front door portable and we want to ring our doorbell remotely … ”
“You can programme the chimes from your phone remotely, and port the speaker anywhere.”
“The point being? Buy a doorbell that goes ding-dong, stick it on the doorframe which doesn’t move; job done.”
“Huh! You take the fun out of everything with your iron-clad logic!” he muttered.
On the Friday he was born, an elderly aunt gave James Milverton Wilson a large black cloth bag with tie-string fastening. Inside was a folded note, and another identical bag.
His parents were instructed to read him the note’s contents (a 100-word-long fairy story), and retain only the inner bag.
Each Friday thereafter revealed another 100 words, plus another bag. Eventually, he read the notes himself – stories, advice on spending or girls, recipes, anything at all.
Exactly 4,253 Fridays later James Milverton Wilson was found slumped in his armchair. On his lap sat a black bag – and a blank note.
Published, with picture, to a page on the F.F.F. website.
Clouds scudded across the full moon. Somewhere an owl hooted.
As the bell tolled midnight they crept into the cemetery. It didn’t take long to find what they were looking for. They went to work immediately, scraping back the turf on top of the freshly dug grave and then digging down into the loose soil. The excitement rose as juicy worms and bugs wriggled towards them.
Early next morning, Widow Watkins’ heart skipped a beat as she surveyed the scene of devastation at her late husband’s grave.
“Grave robbers!” she tearfully complained to the caretaker.
“Badgers!” he replied with resignation.