Groot Expectative
Old Mr. Fezzywunkle hurried along the dingy, grey, bleak and narrow, cobbled smog-ridden streets of Stepney searching for his lost wage packet. As he creaked towards the office of his employ he saw through the mist a small brown envelope flutter past the office steps towards the graveyard. His beady eyes followed the little manilla packet; eager was his wizened grey face and whiskers, keen to secure that which was his, that which would keep him in bread and ale for another week. The mist flew around him like a dervish’s cloak and the old man could see nothing and hear only the swirling, swooshing of the wind and the mist. He became agitated and leant upon one of the large headstones in the graveyard. Suddenly the mist fell and there by the side of an open grave was his week’s pay. Bending over to pick up the envelope he heard a distant but clear sound, he started and then his face contorted horribly as he let out a blood-curdling scream of anguish and threw himself down into the grave.
The bell for last orders, had gone.
