Now that M. the Uber-Geek has fixed my editor, here’s that drabble containing Mr Lynch’s chosen words. I’m afraid it’s neither funny nor Art:
Let God Decide
Sylvia straightened, turned, and walked back towards the house. She should clean herself up before James returned.
Her husband’s experiments had failed to uncover the nature of the tiny, twisted bodies they had found on the moor. He said they were organic beings, but when she had asked if that meant they were God’s creatures, he’d looked away. Science failed again, but as ever, prayer had provided the answer.
A smell like singed bacon lingered over the garden. Fortunately James’s notes had posed less of a problem than the subjects themselves. Behind her, fire consumed the last sheet of paper.