Graveyards

[Benny Tumbleweed]

Ah, old graveyards. There is nothing quite like them. Only in cemeteries do I feel at peace.

There is a lovely old burial ground at the back of my manse. Sixteenth century, I do believe. There, tombstones and crosses slice out of the overgrown foliage with gay abandon.

I visited it this morning, just after sunrise. As usual, there was nobody around. Clouds swirled in the thick expanse of grey sky. Naked, I strode purposely around the graveyard with my Polaroid camera, taking pictures of headless angels and crumbling tombs. Uncle Ferryweather watched on from the black window of his out-house. I gazed over at him, raked my white hair back, felt his sunken eyes on me.

"Maybe later we could come back with shovels and things!" I laughed, but it was a nervous, shrilly laugh. "We'll find you some friends, like I promised! What do you say, Uncle?"

I put the camera down.

There was a rustling in the bushes.

My eyes widened. Suddenly, three old women shuffled out of the overgrowth, clutching flowers and wreaths.

They stopped. Stared at me.

I tried to pretend I was a marble angel, but I was painfully aware of my old chap. I was standing proud - graveyards do that to me, you see. There were sudden screams, raised voices, tears. I ran and ran to the out-house, where I slammed the dusty, cobwebbed door behind me.

"Women," I panted, turning, gasping. "My God, Uncle. Women!"

Uncle rose stiffly from his chair. His trousers fell down to his ankles, and his mouth twitched, though maybe that was just the worms.

"Well boy," he said, his voice the sound of crushed wet leaves, "what are you waiting for? Invite them in!"

His laughter was the sound of bark snapping, mud squelching, fluids farting.

It's late now. I know I have done a bad thing. A very bad thing indeed.

There is a knock at my bedroom door. "Yes?" I whisper.

Uncle shuffles in, trousers still around his ankles. He has a hatchet in his hand. Blood drips on to the carpet.

"Benny old boy," he says. "Be a good chap and clean up the mess in the hall."

"Yes Uncle," I reply.

As I walk towards the door, I hear him throw back the covers and climb into my bed. I turn quickly.

"Uncle!"

I swear I see him wink.

"Don't be late," he says.

[ferretchucker]

Is this all one guy? I'm thinking it might be.

AND DON'T STEAL THE GATE KEEPER'S SIGN OFF LINE YOU JERK!

Don't be late indeed!

[newb]

Originally Posted by Benny Tumbleweed

Ah, old graveyards. There is nothing quite like them. Only in cemeteries do I feel at peace.

There is a lovely old burial ground at the back of my manse. Sixteenth century, I do believe. There, tombstones and crosses slice out of the overgrown foliage with gay abandon.

I visited it this morning, just after sunrise. As usual, there was nobody around. Clouds swirled in the thick expanse of grey sky. Naked, I strode purposely around the graveyard with my Polaroid camera, taking pictures of headless angels and crumbling tombs. Uncle Ferryweather watched on from the black window of his out-house. I gazed over at him, raked my white hair back, felt his sunken eyes on me.

"Maybe later we could come back with shovels and things!" I laughed, but it was a nervous, shrilly laugh. "We'll find you some friends, like I promised! What do you say, Uncle?"

I put the camera down.

There was a rustling in the bushes.

My eyes widened. Suddenly, three old women shuffled out of the overgrowth, clutching flowers and wreaths.

They stopped. Stared at me.

I tried to pretend I was a marble angel, but I was painfully aware of my old chap. I was standing proud - graveyards do that to me, you see. There were sudden screams, raised voices, tears. I ran and ran to the out-house, where I slammed the dusty, cobwebbed door behind me.

"Women," I panted, turning, gasping. "My God, Uncle. Women!"

Uncle rose stiffly from his chair. His trousers fell down to his ankles, and his mouth twitched, though maybe that was just the worms.

"Well boy," he said, his voice the sound of crushed wet leaves, "what are you waiting for? Invite them in!"

His laughter was the sound of bark snapping, mud squelching, fluids farting.

It's late now. I know I have done a bad thing. A very bad thing indeed.

There is a knock at my bedroom door. "Yes?" I whisper.

Uncle shuffles in, trousers still around his ankles. He has a hatchet in his hand. Blood drips on to the carpet.

"Benny old boy," he says. "Be a good chap and clean up the mess in the hall."

"Yes Uncle," I reply.

As I walk towards the door, I hear him throw back the covers and climb into my bed. I turn quickly.

"Uncle!"

I swear I see him wink.

"Don't be late," he says.

he writes like Posher's other alias....I forgot his name....fairly entertaining though

plus he said "gay abandon".....what more proof do we need

[Zero]

ok - - i thought we had a section for fiction (which to be honest i never go anywhere near)

[Posher778]

Yeah, you caught me... Again. I'm pretty sure the 'other alias' wasn't me either. I just started taking credit for his threads when I was accused of it. But this one's really me!