Festive fiction


It was a dark and stormy night at the very end of the year. Roy Warren tells a tall tale which vaguely involves an old motorcycle…
The gravel drive refused to crunch in its usual way as his size 10 boots picked their way through the frozen snow towards the garage door. Instead there was just a light crackle as the most recent layer of snowflakes compressed with each footfall. The lower edge of the garage door at first failed to budge but after a couple of hefty tugs the bonding between door and ice was broken, and in he went.

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