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17 October 2004 @ 08:38 pm
Graveyard.  
I wrote a short-short story. It's probably not very good, especially the ending, but I felt like I needed to write something.


If one were to take a midnight stroll through a certain hilly cemetary in a certain hilly town, one would ultimately come across two patches of smoke hanging lightly in the air. To one patch clung the acrid scent of cheap cigarettes and to the other a tuneless hum occassionally joined by nonsensical muttering. The former was emitted from the nose and the latter from the lips belonging to a young woman.

She wore an old cap and vest which had been her grandfather's in some war. To guard against the chill of the night she had a dark, long-sleeved shirt with a high collar. Her ill-fitting pants were held up by a belt and her knapsack was on the ground. She cursed herself for forgetting her gloves.

Her frigid hands were wrapped around a shovel and she was digging like she did every night. No one had ever bothered to question why, the cemetary had long been abandoned and most people couldn't care less what happened to it. The grass was overrunning the tombstones in places and many of the statues were wrapped in thick coils of ivy.

She puffed on her cigarette, angling it slightly upwards with her lips to keep it from falling to the ground, and looked down at her muddy boots. She had not made a lot of progress that night, something which she blamed on her stiff, cold hands.

Taking a final drag on her cigarette, she stubbed it on the sole of her boot and tucked the trash in one of her pockets. She leaned on the shovel and looked up at the clear sky, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

She would do better the next night, she reasoned as she gathered her things. She had plenty of time, after all.