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 your opinion, can offer a stated connection for folk.
Pop along to the Friday Flash Fiction webpage; there’s loads of flash fiction just waiting for you to digest.
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