Unfinished Stories: In a Graveyard

I love graveyards: as a history buff, and as a fan of the macabre. I don’t mean the new, modern cemeteries that look like golf courses, all flat mowed grass, no trees, no proper headstones or statues. The old ones, with all their beautiful statuary and memento mori epitaphs.

Recently, I rode my bike out to a local historic graveyard to have a wander around. It’s nice to see my little city has some actual history beyond it’s benign facade of suburban sprawl. Actually, I need to go out there more often, because the place is full of writerly inspiration.

Such as these headstones:

Each belongs to a wife whose husband is buried there. Why no date? What happened? Where was she buried in the end? Was there no one left to pay the engravers to place the date of her death on the stone? (Or are Mary and Maude 100+ year-old vampires, stalking the graveyard and seducing victims to their unholy purpose?)

I wonder.

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