Quite by accident Ethel had made a stunning discovery. She discovered that the very, very final phrase a person thought before death (in their native language of course) was “If the nozzle fits on the squiggly-dig then that’s okay”. There were no exceptions. Clearly it was a code devised by God to equivalently say “Open the gates of Heaven for me”. One could negate the request and not die if one immediately said “ZINDABAD” after the final phrase.
“If the nozzle fits on the squiggly-dig then that’s okay. ZINDABAD” was not a fatal phrase but without the ZINDABAD it certainly was.
Ethel was one to play with fire. She would say the phrase with the salvific ZINDABAD all over the place. You’d think she was about to die when WHAM! – ZINDABAD was added.
All of a sudden people all over the world began dropping dead here, there, and everywhere. Ethel had announced her discovery on Facebook and Twitter but she never mentioned the rescuing ZINDABAD bit. In quite a short space of time all Facebook and Twitter users had perished, except of course for Ethel.
How silly! Who would believe such a thing? If the nozzle fits on the squiggly-dig then that’s okay. BABUSHKA!
Clint was sitting at his desk happily typing away. He was simply answering an email from an old school friend of years back. Unexpectedly on the corner wall, just above the computer screen, a shadow of someone’s head appeared.
Clint turned and looked behind him. There was no sunshine streaming into the room through the window. There was no one standing there.
It became a bit scary to say the least. Clint resumed typing, but began to grow more afraid.
Suddenly, curved around the shadow of the head, there appeared the shadow of the curved blade of a scythe.
When his wife, Tilly, brought in a nice cup of tea, Clint was dead. Tilly tried to revive him but to no avail. She rushed to the next room to find the phone. She did not notice, but on the corner wall just above the sofa, a shadow of someone’s head appeared.
It wasn’t a good time for Beatrice. She found herself dreaming of what she would do if her husband of eleven years would pass away. They had plenty of money. They had drifted apart. She would perhaps go on a world trip. She would buy a new wardrobe just for herself. She would sell the house and buy a property with a little lake. There was so much to dream about.
Of course she knew she shouldn’t indulge in such fantasies. Her husband’s death would be a sad time; a very, very sad time. But wouldn’t it be wonderful to be independent again and do whatever she liked when and where?
It was a Thursday and husband Vaughan was driving home. He had just been to the doctor. “I’m sorry,” said the doctor, “but it’s terminal. I would give you a month at the most.”
Vaughan arrived home. He told Beatrice. Beatrice’s heart missed a beat. “Oh that’s terrible,” she said.
Landon was ninety-four years old. “I’ve had a good innings,” he said. “My life has been satisfying. I believe in the afterlife and am looking forward to it.”
He had a little time to go on the final leg of the race. “I’m eager to meet up again with everyone I knew in life; family, friends, and acquaintances. What a reunion it will be! It’ll be great to catch up with my wife Eliza and I’m especially keen to see my daughter and the two grandchildren and the great grandson who have all predeceased me.”
It took about a year, but eventually he did pass away. His excitement was palpable. “At last! At last I’m almost there!” were his final words.
When he got there, everyone was preoccupied with their cell phones.
The good thing about a pet rat, said Cameron, is that their lifespan is generally only two to three years. At least it’s a pet you know you’re going to outlive, and don’t have to worry about making arrangements for it if you die first.
Anyway, at Cameron’s funeral Maisina, his second cousin twice removed, said she would be happy to look after the rat.
Adriana’s main room was an open kitchen, sitting room, dining room. When she got up in the morning, in the dark, to make a coffee, she would turn on the light over the dining table. To turn the fluorescent kitchen light on was far too bright. It would be a rude awakening, especially before the first sip of morning coffee. The light over the dining table was softer; a dull, warm light.
On this particular morning Adriana groped her way towards the light switch as she usually did. She turned on the light. There was someone sitting in an armchair. Adriana screamed. The person did not move. Adriana tentatively approached. The person was dead.
Adriana phoned the police. Apparently the person was some sort of uncover agent so no matter how hard the author of this tale has tried, the person’s identity and why they were there remains a mystery. I apologise.
P.S. I MAY be away for several days as I have piles of work and little sight!!
Liam was absolutely horrified. He’d just seen his wife dead on the bed. Her body was twisted unnaturally. She must have died in utter agony. Her face was as purple as a purple grape. Her mouth looked like she had died in the middle of a scream. Her eyes were vacant and wide open. It was the most horrific thing Liam had ever seen.
He had no idea she would die in such torment when he gave her the poison.
Ian told Mia, his wife, just how shocked he was with the news. The husband of his ex-wife had died suddenly. Ian was the last to know. “You’d think my kids would have mentioned it or something,” Ian told Mia. “After all the kids live with him and Mary most of the time.”
“I can’t believe he’s dead. He was here only last Monday to pick up the kids. He seemed fit as a fiddle. And to think he’d barely got home when he dropped dead. I must admit that I’d never warmed to him much, but it’s still a shock when something happens that you’re not expecting.”
“Thank goodness he didn’t do it when he was here. I wouldn’t have known what to do. I’m no good in an emergency. And then given what Vivian told me about him and what he did to her, I wouldn’t be surprised if I would not simply have stood there and watched him die.”
“Vivian said that the coroner reckoned it wasn’t an accident. He was poisoned or something. I don’t believe that for a minute. My ex-wife, Mary, is not like that. She wouldn’t have it in her. Besides, unlike me, she’s no good at chemistry and poisons and stuff.”
“One good thing about not been told he’d kicked it was that I didn’t feel compelled to go to the funeral. It was all over before I could blink. On a lighter note I offered him a beer when he came for the kids. He took it and given that he dropped dead about thirty minutes after I can’t help but think it was a waste of bloody good beer.”