It was a bleak, dark night. Our car was driving through
Ringland. The only source of light was our car headlights. We were on our way
to my Grandad 'with the beard''s funeral. It was going to be a sad day
for all of us. Not because of his burial, but because of the slaughter of
hundreds of people because by a black, ghostly terrier with red eyes.
Our car narrowly avoided a collision with another vehicle
and my dad cursed. After hours of driving, forced to eat from Little Chef, we
arrived. This was the terrible part.© 2009 Peter Webb
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