I went to his address but there was nobody there.

He remembered the smell of her skin in the overheated darkness of a coffin near the port, her fingers locked across the small of his back.

When I came past the accident scene I couldn't believe it - the driver was walking around, though he was breathing a little huskily. As the ambulance by that time had arrived I told one of the zambucks.

Meanwhile, Flying Spaghetti Monsterism (FSM-ism to its adherents) has thrived — particularly on college campuses and in Europe.