Buried On Sunday Direct

By the time the congregation reached the church hall for tea and dry biscuits, the rain had stopped entirely. The business of Silas Vance was concluded. The week was closed.

Silas had passed on a Tuesday, mid-breath while pruning his prize roses. For five days, he sat in the chilled cellar of the local mortician, Mr. Gable, who spent the week polishing the mahogany casket until he could see his own tired eyes in the grain. Buried on Sunday

As the ropes groaned, lowering Silas into the mud, a strange thing happened. The sun pierced through a jagged tear in the clouds, hitting the brass nameplate just before it disappeared below the surface. For a second, the grave glowed. The first shovel of dirt hit the wood with a hollow thump . By the time the congregation reached the church

"Late to his own party," she whispered as the pallbearers stumbled slightly on the slick grass. Silas had passed on a Tuesday, mid-breath while