Never Cross A Dead Man The woman knelt at her husband’s grave holding a drooping bunch of daffodils. She showed no remorse when she regaled her tales of holiday romances, a newly purchased diamond ring and fur coats. But her laughter turned to screams when she saw his hand rise from the freshly tossed topsoil, and felt it grasping for her ankle. As she was pulled sobbing and kicking into the grave, only the dead were a witness to her timely and suffocating reunion. Her disappearance became a local mystery, punctuated only by her diamond ring left behind at his graveside. * At the beginning of December 2019, I decided to enter Friday Flash Fiction ’s website competition with a 96-word piece I wrote a couple of years ago: Never Cross A Dead Man. I was dubious of its success due to its horror content. However, it made the top ten shortlist for the public vote, and although it didn’t win, I’m pleased I submitted it. So, writerly lesson learnt: you’re most understated work, in