Typo story of the day: Holy Thunder
The storm was drawing nearer, the thunder nearly constant. Lightning flared and wind hammered—
No, not the wind. There was somebody at the door.
"Not again!" Sarah groaned, but it was no good ignoring them. They'd just hammer away doggedly until the end of the storm, and once the rest of them started to arrive, things could turn very messy indeed.
She stood up. Beneath the tatty blanket, the lump quivered, burrowing deeper into the cushions.
Reaching the door, she fastened the chain then twisted the latch, opening the door a cautious crack. "What is it?" she demanded.
They had robes on, this lot, and were standing three by three. "We bring a sacrifice!" the leader intoned, raising aloft a chocolate rabbit and a butter knife. ("Best we could manage at short notice," whispered the young one at the back of the group.)
A car pulled up at the end of the drive, and tall men burst forth. "Away with you, you heretics!" boomed the tallest as he endeavoured to don his impressive hat. "We alone follow the One True Path! Let us drape the Great One with garlands!" (The third tall man did an about turn and hurried back to the car to rummage anxiously in the boot.)
"Stop it!" Sarah admonished them, for the lady with the butter knife seemed to be about to use it, and not on a chocolate rabbit. "I refuse to have a religious war at my own front door."
A circle of dancers was forming up in the garden, their dresses diaphanous and soggy. "We sing our paeon of the praise to He Who Bestrides The Narrow World Like A Colossus!" they sang in seven part harmony.
"Enough!" Sarah shouted, as thunder cracked above them, and lightning blazed so brightly that for a moment afterwards she could barely see. "Enough," she said. "No sacrifices, please. No fighting. He hears your… respects and is pleased with them. Now go away. But," she couldn't resist adding, "he doesn't really bestride anything, you know. He's just a dachshund."
She closed the door, bolted it twice, and returned to the couch. The lump was shivering, emitting pitiful whines. Sarah sat down beside it, touching it soothingly. "Poor little sausage. It's only a storm, and it'll be over soon. There's no need to be sacred."
No, not the wind. There was somebody at the door.
"Not again!" Sarah groaned, but it was no good ignoring them. They'd just hammer away doggedly until the end of the storm, and once the rest of them started to arrive, things could turn very messy indeed.
She stood up. Beneath the tatty blanket, the lump quivered, burrowing deeper into the cushions.
Reaching the door, she fastened the chain then twisted the latch, opening the door a cautious crack. "What is it?" she demanded.
They had robes on, this lot, and were standing three by three. "We bring a sacrifice!" the leader intoned, raising aloft a chocolate rabbit and a butter knife. ("Best we could manage at short notice," whispered the young one at the back of the group.)
A car pulled up at the end of the drive, and tall men burst forth. "Away with you, you heretics!" boomed the tallest as he endeavoured to don his impressive hat. "We alone follow the One True Path! Let us drape the Great One with garlands!" (The third tall man did an about turn and hurried back to the car to rummage anxiously in the boot.)
"Stop it!" Sarah admonished them, for the lady with the butter knife seemed to be about to use it, and not on a chocolate rabbit. "I refuse to have a religious war at my own front door."
A circle of dancers was forming up in the garden, their dresses diaphanous and soggy. "We sing our paeon of the praise to He Who Bestrides The Narrow World Like A Colossus!" they sang in seven part harmony.
"Enough!" Sarah shouted, as thunder cracked above them, and lightning blazed so brightly that for a moment afterwards she could barely see. "Enough," she said. "No sacrifices, please. No fighting. He hears your… respects and is pleased with them. Now go away. But," she couldn't resist adding, "he doesn't really bestride anything, you know. He's just a dachshund."
She closed the door, bolted it twice, and returned to the couch. The lump was shivering, emitting pitiful whines. Sarah sat down beside it, touching it soothingly. "Poor little sausage. It's only a storm, and it'll be over soon. There's no need to be sacred."