Thirst of the Dead

“Hmmm it’s a bit dark in here” said Clive trying to make out his surroundings. “Hang on……I’m dead!”

Being six foot underground and secured within a wooden coffin would obviously make sight limiting. Reaching out as best he could, he scratched at an annoying itch on his stomach only to find his fingers slip through the gaps in his exposed ribcage and touch something cold and moist.

“Well that’s different,” he said, now exploring the solid soffit above him. He tapped at it, then blinked heavily whilst spitting out the dirt and soil that fell upon his face. The more he tapped and clawed away, the more the ground above fell in on him but something compelled him to continue.

It wasn’t long before he was sat beside his grave under a moonlit sky confused and dying for a pint. Hobbling to his feet he dusted himself down, and removed the worm that had taken up residence in the left side of his cracked skull. Ever since he was a young boy he was taught the benefits of always looking one’s best.

Clive made his way from the grounds of the church and along to his local, slowly on account of his broken leg, but holding his head high. As he arrived, two familiar faces greeted him, even if the exterior of what was his pub didn’t.

“Albert. Fred.”

“Clive,” said one of the two men, each looking extremely worse off than the other. “Didn’t think it would be long before you got here. Any idea what a skinny latte is?”

Copyright: authorchrisbrown

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