Nov. 14th, 2009

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It was early evening in the countryside of Dorset. In the distance, thunder rumbled as another storm approached. All I could hear was the wind rustling the dry leaves and in the distance, the rain falling on the fields. The dank air was ripe with the smell of rain, moist earth, and something far more potent...the unmistakable scent of decay. The rest of this estate was bright, cheerful, and open, but the area I was in was dark, choked with ivy, ancient trees, and crumbling stone. Fresh turned earth was the only clue that this place had seen the hand of man in the last hundred years. Fresh turned earth...holes in front of each crumbling headstone.

And the holes were empty. )

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Brendan Keigwin

February 2010

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