The news from Baltimore arrived in a hearse. Cornelius Francis Poehler was dead. And not a single relative that guided him to his final resting place would shed a tear for him. Not even when the coffin was lowered into the ground, and amid the soothing rustling of autumn leaves, the persistent anxious thumping from inside the wooden box was clearly audible.
Read this tale and 100 more stories in 300 words or less in YOU’RE GETTING SLEEPY, THE HYPNOTIST’S APPRENTICE YAWNED.
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