... Mac Abre wiped his brow, it was getting late.
The sun was slipping beyond the trees, and in the
twilight the shadows danced as the evening breeze
rustled about the graveyard. He had finished the
hole, the final resting spot. It would be filled
tomorrow with a coffin, but this evening, it was
a gaping gash in the earth, a wound that would not
heal 'til filled with a body in the 'morrow.
Mac Abre stepped up close to the edge to admire
his handiwork. He blinked his tired eyes. Had
something moved in the darkness of the pit?
Mac peered deep into the waiting grave ...
suddenly! a fluttering specter rose up from the
bowels of the earth and flying past him escaped
into the dancing shadows of the surrounding woods.
Mac clutched his chest & ducked his head in fright
... and then ...
old Mac fell head long into the grave he had dug
for the internment of the next ...
- such is the life of a ghost.