The wind screamed. There were better days for walking along cliff tops.

He stuffed his ears with Coldplay. His gaze fell upon a pair of huge bones arranged into a great arch. The incongruous doorway curled down to a settlement scattered across the coastline.

He entered the crescent opening. His sybaritic fingers tingled under the warm touch of the bones. His memories flooded in one flash of exhilaration.

His steps quickened. A neglected blue beach hut with a guardian awaited the village’s newest arrival. The door splintered apart. An official decorated in a butcher’s apron and a kiss me quick hat an offered his hand.

“Welcome to Grmychurch. I’m sure you’ll enjoy your stay. Just past the car park are a few shops, a theme park with rides and an amusement arcade, a cafe and your digs are right at the end of the road. Oh, and you’ll need one of these.”

The attendant presented Trevor with a pink slip numbered 308.

“I’m sorry, you’re mistaken. I’m not staying, just visiting. What’s the slip for anyway?”

“The slip is your pass for all the facilities here. Make sure you keep it on you at all times. Oh, and you’ll never leave Grymchurch. No-one ever does.”

Trevor thanked the man. He walked into the heart of the village. He could hear the clamour of the arcade. He knew he would never leave. He doubted he’d ever want to.

Written by guest author Gary Hewitt
http://kingsraconteurswork.blogspot.se/