The Day Job.

It was gloomy here this morning.  Then again, it was always gloomy here.  I had no coworkers, but was completely surrounded by people.  I made my way to the top of the hill where the crumbling statue of St. Christopher watched over those who resided here.  It was Wednesday, which meant the south route.  Every Wednesday meant the south route since I had started here.  South Route meant walking up towards the willow where Mr. Peterson was, looping all the way down around Ernest Baker, then across and all along the south side where the troops were.  

"Good morning, Gladys," I said to my left as I did every Wednesday morning.  My job was to pick up the decaying material people left.  No momentos, said the boss.  Only stuff that'll make the place stink.  So old beer cans people left cracked, the decaying flowers that began to smell of wet animal, and other miscellanious perishable items people would leave for their mothers, grandfathers, great uncles and so on.  But I looked up towards the south route bend, and saw something intriguing,  Something that didn't accomidate the usual Wednesday.  A girl.  About 7 years old. No taller than the average gravestone around here.  I looked around.  Aren't kids that age freaked out by places like these?  I scanned the south grounds, and saw no parents.  Surely, if she saw me, she would be afraid of me.  I was the kind of person urban legends were spawned in spite of.  An old man grooming a graveyard seemed enough reason to stay away on a morning like this.  But she just stood there. Staring at the stone in front of her, seeming to be completely unaware of my presense.  I started to make my way to her, but as I got closer, I began to become familiar with this girl.  The hair, the eyes, the blue dress.  I dropped my bag, and dropped to my knees.  I buried my face in my hands.  I looked up from my palms, and she was gone.  I desperately searched around, turning on my aged joints in all directions, suddenly on my feet.  Surely I'd seen her.  It had been years, but that doesn't always mean they wont come back.  I wove around Helen James, straight past Buck Perkins and found my way back to my starting point.  I sighed, and dropped my head.  It's not everyday the dead hang out here, but they make good company when they do.  It was gloomy in the graveyard, and I realized just then how alone I was. I picked up the wilted flowers on Gladys's grave, so that they might be replaced on Friday when her grandaughter came to visit.  I looked towards the spot the girl stood at. I guess, it's just nice to know I'm not the only one who comes back.

20 Minute Write

Short Story II

.K SG C.