Cemetery

There’s always a pale yellow light, from whatever is able to sneak through the trees. The air is stagnant, untouched by the wind that sometimes protests against the surrounding trees. But they’re strong, they keep the inside preserved like a beetle caught in an amber mold. There are no flowers. There’s nothing but kudzoo and weeds, cruel encroaching plants that blanket the hill and devour the headstones covering the already faded names. Nobody visits them anyway except the things that skuttle through the underbrush or the creatures that slip from the woods and up from the ground, far more terrifying than the souls of the bones that lie in the wooden boxes below.

On the ground little bits of amber sometimes break through what is not green or brown. Little bits of amber left by winos and hobos and delinquents of decades past who don’t remember the names on the stones anymore than anyone else. Digging into the ground, nails fill with dirt and turn the ruddy color of dried blood from the clay that lies beneath the brown. Out come bottles of different sizes, all thick and all dark amber. The dirt’s here too, inside, with sticks and webby clumps and the skulls of small rodents who made the unfortunate decision to slip inside only to trap themselves. Put the opening close to an eye and spin. The loose contents follow one another round and round, occasionally light by the sparse saffron light that’s able to evade the dirt covered interior, a kaleidoscope of decay. Not beautiful but horrifying.

Water can take care of that, forceful rushing water that wipes out the decay. The new bottles line the windowsill and turn to honey with the sunlight.