Author: Tombstone

he sound of dirt being dug and shifted. “I do not do this for all the parents, Harold.” Inside a grave with a shovel is Tombstone. “But then, when a child is unfortunate enough to perish before their parents, their parents are more

arkness above. The tide of grey waters sloshes back and forth across a large sandy beach. Tombstone kneels, taking wooden planks apart. Around him are the souls of the deceased. “Take us.” They chant. Tombstone ignores them, disassembling something.  “The trip across these intrepid waters is a

ire crackles, wood crunches. “I did not want to do it.” Tombstone sits cutting a lonely figure beside the inferno. “The sound of pain is not one I cherish.” “It is not music to my ears.” “As I sit before the cremation furnace, the echoes

have read many obituaries. There is always a disconnect between how the deceased viewed themselves and how their family perceived them. The family is of course the one to immortalize their loved one in your paper. Yet having spoken to the

ave you ever heard the tale of three blind mice? The song doesn’t do the tale justice. You see, the blind mice were  mischievous characters, seeking adventure, pain and entertainment. The first of the mice adored adventure. He would run blindly into

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Agony.  Seering pain, unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I look down to where my hands clasp around my stomach. The last time I saw these, they were holding my insides that just happened to be on the outside. Someone cut me. They

once had a tiny little yellow canary. It was a beautiful bird that I kept in a cage with the door open. I did not want to trap the bird, so I gave it freedom. If the bird did not

rief is like a ladder. It starts with a numbness. In the very first few days upon the river, self-bereavement is extremely common. People try to communicate and continue as if nothing has happened. As if they’re on a trip. Even though

rudge, trudge, trudge. Heavy steps stomp through dense mud, making a squelch beneath the boots. Before us is a large wooden gate, connected to a surrounding wall, with screaming faces merged within. Their moans and groans echo through the dark red

very soul I ferry to their final destination has something in common. They are deceased. One way or another, they have perished. And every single one has lived a life. Some lives are better than others. Some are spent well and some are wasted. I’ve