A tease from Grave Robber for Hire Busy road exhaust fumes assaulted my lungs. Traffic whooshed behind me in a city-sized thunder as I strode through the cemetery’s four sandstone pillars in my kitty-paw print boots. I needed the old grave area, so I turned left and kept going. Ten minutes later, I stood at the base of Clyde Owen Jones’ grave. A spindly guava bush hung over a large age-blackened cross. The granite cross’ left arm was shattered as if struck by lightning or smashed with a sledge hammer. Cross pieces studded the ground and glinted white and black in the harsh sun. Guava fruit filled the air with a tropical, slightly nauseating, fragrance. A crow cawed, a soft beat behind the cacophony of cicadas in their summer love chorus. Sweat trickled between my boobs. I glanced around. An elderly couple stood admiring a huge angel monument and a Labrador watered a palm tree nearby. Otherwise, I was alone. Just me, my guardian, and a few hundred dead spirits. Yep, same-old-same-old. The old sections of cemeteries are the easiest for readings because the long dead don’t get many visitors to watch the freak feel up the grave. Me being the freak. Vig leaned on the neighboring gravestone, crossed his arms and sunned his face. I dumped my handbag in front of Clyde’s impaired cross. Heat shimmered in silver wraithlike vibrations off the faded grass and summer scorched soil. Hands on hips, I wrinkled my nose. This was so gonna suck. It would have been nice to find the grave steeped in shade. I readied myself for the burn and lowered myself till I lay face down. Shame my leatherette outfit didn’t include insulation. Cross chunks and soil crystals seared the bare skin on my arms, chest and cheek. Dust burning my nose, I opened my sixth sense and called telepathically to the spirit lingering in the disintegrated coffin beneath. My version of knock, knock, who’s home. I blew out a breath, creating an eye blinding dust storm. Eyes watering, I blinked them clean. “I’m not looking forward to meeting up with Clyde’s spirit again. He was creepy,” I told the ant near my nose and Vig. “Creepy?” Vig speaks only a few decipherable modern words. “Super creepy. Shrivel my ovaries to specks, creepy.” He laughed, “That is bad.” The thousand year old dead guy had a point. Http://tinyurl/mqzh87a
Posted on: Tue, 04 Mar 2014 23:51:18 +0000
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