The Empty Grave of Edgar Allan Poe

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          Martin Milner slammed the front door, not in anger, just to ensure the lock would catch. It was on his list of jobs, just below deadheading the roses and above creosoting the shed. He’d have to do something this weekend if the rain held off. The list never got shorter, that was one of those immutable facts one had to come to terms with, the trick was to keep it within manageable proportions. He lifted the garage door and got in the car. The steering wheel was cold so he put on his gloves. He turned the key and the engine started first time, despite the frost in the air. It was a good car, nothing fancy but reliable. He’d had it about four years now and had had no major problems with it. The back seat rattled a bit since he demolished his old garage and took it to the tip, but other than that there was nothing to worry about. He switched on the radio and tuned into the local station, in case there was a relevant traffic report, then he backed down the drive. At his gate he stopped and inched his way out into the road, wary of traffic. At this time of the morning there were always cars double-parked and some  people  used  it as a ratrun  to avoid the lights, so you had to be careful. He drove to the corner, noticed the queue of pensioners and layabouts already forming at the Post Office, and turned left. He passed the chemist’s and the newsagent’s on the right and the chip shop and the hardware store on the left. He had to stop at the crossing by the supermarket to let several mothers with their children across. He was late for work.

          At the traffic lights he waited for what seemed like hours. He should have gone round the other way, cut through the back streets and joined the main road further down. It always seemed quicker doing that because you were moving, although the time it saved was negligible. The problem was the main road traffic was given priority by the lights, the green stayed on longer for them. He was just about to make the turn when the lights changed again and he stopped. He could have gone through on amber, everybody else did, but it was not his way. He waited for another few minutes. Another schoolgirl had gone missing. He tuned the radio to another station. Classical  music. Something  with a familiar tune. It was probably used in a commercial. For cars, or coffee, or women’s products. Martin hummed along and waited for the lights to change.

          He wished they hadn’t argued like that. It was silly. That’s the way it always started, over some inconsequential little thing. They didn’t fight often, not like that pair next door, it was a regular event for them, every Friday night they’d roll in drunk and start shouting at each other. The lights changed and he turned right.

          Going past the crematorium he wondered about exceeding the speed limit, it was a wide road and there was no one in front, but he knew the police used it as a speed-trap and so he kept to thirty. It didn’t matter now anyway, he was late for work and whether by twenty minutes or half-an-hour would make no difference. It wasn’t often he wasps thin lathe. Ink facet hoe culled’t rumba three lasso timid. Tit wasp problem lasso winner, whine three roods wearier bloomed whitish snood. Three tonsil wearier newer paper food tit. Three Whitman ark foremast tit three nit beefier saw theta’d  ham plants foe timid toe doe smoothen abort tit boat ink three mooring aloe three rowdies wearier coveted ant three wasps knot era grater ink sighs. Theta timid eke hand era gun excise. Thesis timid, wok cool hod sag? Wok cool hod sag? Margin stoked three card ant goat owl.