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…full of woe…

The sun was setting by the time she got to the graveyard, but that suited her fine.   She could not have admitted she actually liked the outer world to reflect the inner melancholy, to compliment the brain chemistry that prompted the over-sleeping, the bouts of crying, the obsessive thinking.   When the boy with the hollow eyes and hoodie came to join her on the bench she chose, she was almost relieved to hear he had not come to visit someone he’d lost – he only said ‘Not yet.’   Real pain and suffering skewed her current perspective of the world which was unintentionally ego-centric and morbid, and a silent listener was a chance to pour out the strange waves of hurt that had been ruling her life in recent months – the car accident, the job loss, the fleeing fiance, the cancer-stricken parent, the depression that too often fuelled the drinking that fuelled the depression.   It was some time before she realised the light was fading faster now, and the boy might not be listening at all – so intent was he on the open grave a little way down the hill.   It was presumably waiting in ceremony for tomorrow’s funeral, fake turf laid discreetly over the convenient pile of bare dirt at its side.  When he suggested they go for a little walk, it was down that path.   And when he left the graveyard alone, night had fallen but the turf had been rearranged carefully over the only slight depleted mound, and the grave still looked just as deep and dark as it should, and if there was a moral about baring your soul to strangers, there was no-one left to hear it.   At least on the surface of things.





  1. oh yeah….that´s really good writing….

  2. Wednesday was the best so far. gave me chills..still is..

  3. Come on people..Anyone in the publishing business that’s reading this, What are you waiting for?? His writings scare the hell out of me! better than Stephen King.

    • Here here. I second that.

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