Dead Men Sometimes Tell Tales

“Is there some point you’re trying to make?” the Grave-Keeper asked, now fully regretting having pulled over to attend to the dead man. “All stories have points to make, but what point I’ve made is up to you to make sense of — or don’t, I don’t

The dead man began his story: “Once there was a man named Sisyphus who kept a beautiful farm, full of fertile, black soil (this was after he had decided to let the boulder roll away long ago). As he expanded his land, he excavated a beautiful assortment of statues made

The Grave-Keeper reached down and pulled the dead man from his grave — the grave they had just dug for him. The dead man brushed the neutrinos off his vest and spoke, even though his jaw was unhinged on one side. “Thanks for that. Though, I suppose it was your fault

The Grave-Keeper dangled their arm out a window in the not-car. Solar winds brushed against their face as they pushed the pedal to the floor. It had been some time since they’d cruised the Celestial Highway, a long time since they’d made time just for themself. The Highway