Out here in the cold cemetery nights, the greenish-blue tint of my death fantasies come alive. I’m not much a fan of the waking hours; the dead are more on my level, the way they hold nothing back when they speak to me and tell me of their underground dreams and experiences. I think it was my father who said, when I was just a young boy, that, “The dead hold secrets the living can learn from, if only we listen to the whispers of the night.”
Cold cemetery nights, not such a fright to me. Others have rebuked me for my twilight walks, stalking among the graves, but I ignore them. The gravedigger works overtime every night; I’m not sure if he’s dead or alive. I see him digging these deep holes most nights, allowing the souls to re-enter the world. The gravedigger’s name is Cain – he has the brightest blue eyes, a slim yet muscular frame, and hands so calloused they bleed every night.
On my last night on earth, the gravedigger dug a hole so deep that it opened a chasm to the Otherworld, molten flames shot into the sky. The gravedigger dove head-first in the pit; I dutifully followed him. I don’t come back to the surface much anymore, except on times like this to give you this story, which I will write down on the tombstone that has my name. Tell the people of the waking hours they are welcome anytime to join us down below.
Now that’s eerie. But has an edge of beauty. 🙂
Thank you, Terveen! Happy New Year!
Happy New Year, Nick! Have a good one. God bless. 🙂