And on and on.
A wind made the dry autumn leaves flutter and fall unseen in the night. The moon now moved behind thin clouds. Somewhere a goose honked.
“And so there I was in Stoke Poges, England,” Roy said, walking along. “It was in my young packing-around days–1971, I think it was. And this meant I was in the vicinity of a special cemetery, the one Thomas Gray wandered before he offered ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.’ You know it?”
“Yes,” Tree said.
“I think I’m supposed to,” Woody said.
“Anyway, I arrived there at almost vespers time. It was damp from a rain just over. I walked in among the gravestones to feel what Gray had felt. And then I saw it. Toward the center was the cemetery’s tallest gravestone. But it was covered with a tarp. I walked over to see what was the matter. I lifted the tarp. And do you know what I saw?”
There was a pause. Roy stopped walking. He turned to Woody and Tree.
“Someone had taken blue paint and painted across the stone in large block letters: ‘FUCK NIXON FUCK HEATH.’ It was that kind of time. Nice of the Brits to give us top billing, though. And yet Gray’s timeless message still stays with us.”
“Yes,” Tree said. “The tweets of Twitter lead but to the grave.”
The short story is free to those who buy, setting their own price, QT’s e-book comic thriller at zaysmith.com/get-the-e-book-pre-release-of-qts-novel-60606
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