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Dead and Buried

They’re building a new visitor centre down at the graveyard where people can come and buy postcards of the oldest stones and plastic mocked up memorials of roses and angels and even pencil cases with pictures of graves and there on the bottom shelf is a jigsaw for sale with a painting that the city’s famous artist made before she died and was herself interred in the space that is now renowned for its ancient gorgeous monuments to such an extent that you can take a tour around the place for just ten quid and people come from all around the world to do just that though no one scribbles on the graves the way they do in that place in Paris where Jim Morrison is buried and I’ve never quite understood why he was laid to rest there when he was American and surely you want to end up in the place that you came from so your bones go back to the soil you belong to but maybe I’m wrong and we all belong everywhere and even though there’s no one famous in this graveyard with its sparkling new visitor centre couples still want to get married right here in the big room above the gift shop that opens out to yew trees and cedars and rowans that you always used to find in cemeteries because the berries keep evil spirits away though maybe there’s something practical too like something to do with disguising the smell of the bodies which there’s no need for these days with modern embalmment procedures and now the needles fall on brides like confetti, sprinkling down into their ivory clad cleavages as they walk up this strange aisle towards their husbands and the wrought iron gates so stark so strong and so solid you can see why they’d want their photos taken outside them looking like romantic gothic beauties their youthful smooth skin seemingly tinted with gold as they stand there mocking the dead.

Flash Fiction by Alison Powell
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Published in Spring 2017


  1. Douglas Douglas

    I like the breathlessness of this.

    • Crystal Crystal

      I agree. It’s beautiful.

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