Hannah cleared the food scraps from the dinner plates and wriggled her feet into the shunnies by the door, humming along to the music on her ipod. At that exact moment, there was a small tear in the universe that widened as she opened the door. Something wheezed and groaned outside.
Hannah clattered down the steps, around the side of the house and suddenly stopped. She stared in disbelief. There seemed to be a tardis sitting in the middle of the driveway. The door was open and there was no sign of the Doctor.
For 100 consecutive days I will write and post a short story (about 100 words) incorporating a randomly selected word from Afterliff: A new dictionary of things there should be words for.
Footwear belonging to someone else, temporarily borrowed for the purpose of carrying the kitchen rubbish to the bin outside.
The amount of drink in your glass when you ask for ‘a very small one’ and then are disappointed by how little you get.