A (Very) Short Story

Mrs Bessie Swanepoel was sitting on a tombstone in the midst of a torrential flood. Wisps of her hair had broken lose from her matron bun and were glued to her face like a family of leeches. As she clung to the tombstone with all her strength, which was not much, being as she was in the advanced stages of osteoporosis, she gazed at the passing livestock, velveteen armchairs and church pews as they flowed past her in a violent swirl. Out of the corner of her eye she could just make out the bloated body of Mr Tertius van Tonder, the local butcher, as he swept past her on his back, carried away on a hearse of tangled branches and vines. The sky hung like a foreboding shroud over the village, and the water showed no signs of abatement. Mrs Swanepoel was quite convinced that the wrath of God was upon them.