Slowly, his life became denser than the graveyards. Not 'til the recent times did the townsfolk notice that the gravestones growing out of the grasses were more in number than the flowers in the grave. They had went to the mayor asking for a brand new grave, but he declined saying - "few people die in the town, nowadays. The young people, who are most frequently dead, are buried in the largest grave of them all: Agony."

People stopped complaining after that. Not because of what the mayor had told but because they found one fine day, that the lovely undertaker whom all of them admired was living a life much, much denser than the death of their children.

Labels: death, fiction, flash fiction, grave, life, short story, story, surreal, surrealism, war