Sunday, 3 February 2013

A not so peaceful Sunday

Geoff was sitting in his garden enjoying his pipe and watching St. Swithen’s play St. Stephen’s in the local village cricket grudge match when it happened. Everything had been going so well. He had kept her hidden; feed her each day, giving her just enough nourishment. Once she was ready they would all see him for the genius he was. Not small potatoes like they all thought. This year was going to be his year, the year he revealed his true colours.
St. Stephen’s were 194 for 9 in the last over chasing 199. Big Jimmy Smithers was up to bat and Arthur Jones ran in, determined to shatter middle peg. Jimmy read the flight of the ball all the way and promptly set it sailing straight over the bowlers head. St. Stephen’s were cheering so loudly they never heard the smash, but Geoff did. He jumped up and ran to the side of the little cottage. The window pane was smashed. He ran forward towards his makeshift greenhouse.
He was found the next morning by the postman. Dead on the floor, heart attack. He was lying next to this little ram shackled green house and in it a huge marrow. A huge marrow with a cricket ball embedded in its middle.


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