“I wish I was immortalised in stone,” mused Henry.
Chris pondered this strange statement from his friend. He’d heard some odd waffle from his companion over the course of 67 years, but this was right up there.
“But you wouldn’t be able to move,” he offered. “You’d be encased in granite or marble, or limestone. You’d be stiffened beyond all reasonable realms of movement. You’d be stuck solid, wherever you last stood, for hundred of years to come. And that’s without bringing the pigeons into consideration.”
“Shit,” Henry conceded. “Not only that, but I’d probably miss the next World Cup.”
Somewhat late to the party this week – having had some time off. Still, here is my offering for Friday Fictioneers.