Saturday, October 1, 2016

Eleven Miles of Night: Reading #57:

He looked downward, at the grass that was growing atop Lorna Mae Watson’s grave. The fescue, dandelions, and crabgrass were about ankle height. Someone obviously mowed the lawn here at semi-regular intervals. From beneath the ground, he thought that he could feel Lorna Mae’s empty gaze bore into him. Did the dead resent the living? Well, a person who had died at eighty-five or ninety might not; such a person had more than lived his or her share, after all. But what about a person who had died at the youthful age of twenty-two? How would Lorna Mae feel about a young man about her age standing here on her grave, taking in the sights like her tragedy was part of some tourist attraction? 
How would you feel, if you were her?......

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