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The cracking of twigs and the crunching of leaves filled the cool twilight shadows. He looked for the secret passage in deliriums of obsessive self-possession. The passage, the damn passage, he thought. A flittering of sparrows trilled as he trampled the thickets and braid scrub. The sun hung low like a bloated pumpkin near the horizon and indigo silhouettes leaked in an ever increasing arc across the sky.

The heap of broken tree limbs was nearly impenetrable, woven in a sylvan web of fence row fray, the fringe lining the edge of sleep, a fury of lichen and moss, toadstool and daisy weed. Where was the entrance, at that moment he saw it a tiny portal. Crawling through, his clothing split up the back in tails of exclamation, the suit he wore was created for repose rather than willy-nilly exploration. As he emerged on the other side he breathed in and inhaled a sour fetid puff of tempest decay. The mausoleum was close to the edge of the graveyard and he made his way to the open casket. Climbing in to the silk lined box he thought of nothing but sleep and the sweet caress of heavens touch. Pulling down the lid, he lay still in respect for the dead and the almost dead.

Story by:

Ron Koppelberger

submitted at 9:53am

3 April 2011