HE was falling. Not flying, falling. No wings, just outstretched arms desperately seeking something to hold on to.
Below him was a big black hole. He was falling towards it and he was screaming. Screaming so loud that he thought his lungs would burst. But the fall went on and on and there didn’t seem to be an end to it.
DON smiled. Chris Rea's 'Driving Home for Christmas' was playing on the car radio and he was ready, very ready for Christmas.
Just the two of them, Don and his wife Jan, cocooned inside their smart, four bedroomed detached house.
IT was great to get away from the chip shop.
Standing in the fresh early morning air, waiting for his two mates to join him, Mick could hardly conceal his excitement. He fingered the three tickets in his pocket. Never won a raffle before in his life. And to a Rolling Stones concert as well - unbelievable.
I woke up groaning, a drum beating painfully inside my head. Tongue thick and dry, body drained - not unusual for a Saturday morning.
I wanted to return to my dreams, but imagined I smelt coffee. Thirst winning; I dragged myself out of bed, donned my threadbare maroon toweling robe, pushed my feet into my old-flapping carpet slippers and set off to investigate the unexpected aroma.
THE faces looked out at him from the photograph. All six of them. But it was the girl on the left that had him transfixed.
Who was she, he pondered? A stupid thought really. Judging by the clothes the photograph was taken sometime in the 1920s. She would almost certainly be dead now or if not extremely old and wrinkly.
WHEN Frank awoke it was a beautiful day with a clear blue sky. The sun was exceptionally strong even at that early hour, stronger than it had been for many a year.
But as soon as he opened his eyes he knew that something was wrong.