 
Epitaph
Whistling through the graveyard the other day, I happened upon an unusually large tombstone. It was tall and slim, sort of like an obelisk, whose flat surface, facing me, bore an inscription that filled its length from top to bottom. I made a note of it:
"En route to visit an acquaintance, I crossed the path of a gypsy hag. She said to me, "You are going to be so famous. And you don't even know it." I was an actor by trade and not a very successful one, so this pleased me immensely. A year to the day I was shot by a policeman without just cause."
My pencil lead snapped against the notepad. Hang on a second, I thought, then how did you...
B Epitaphin Flash Fiction Month 2010 
Fenwick's Window
In the back, back, back, way beyond, a boy stands at his bedroom window, staring out through shifting, spindled darknesses as the rain comes tumbling down. His name is Fenwick Hatton and he is thirteen years old. He does not see the bilious moon, nor the insulated glow of the clouds. He does not even see the raindrops flung against the glass only inches from his face.
Instead, he listens. He listens while, below, adults chatter and laugh. He can hear the clunking of their feet and the clinking of their cutlery. He hears the low, sonorous voices of the men and the high pealing chimes of the women. When, occasionally, he can make out words or Fenwick's Windowin Flash Fiction Month 2010
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