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I tell stories
100 words, or sometimes more


I placed some flowers on the unnamed grave.

I’d come to this churchyard to find the headstone of a famous man. Partly through masochism, because I doubt I’ll be remembered myself. Partly it’s trainspotting with cadavers.

I didn’t find him. Instead, I found this. A tiny headstone. No name. Just a few carved swirls and a date: 1872.

I may not have fresh flowers in 100 years, but I’ll still have a name.

My hobby remains morbid, but I’ve changed who I’m hunting. Should you ever find a new bunch of roses on an untended grave, that’s where I’ve been.

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