I think of my cemetery as a salad.

The grass is not the lettuce like I bet everyone thinks. The grass is freshly steamed frozen peas, and the shadows of the tree leaves are actually the lettuce; mounds of fresh cut grass are sprouts. The gravestones are different kinds of mushrooms, some large and a pale gray, others old and shrivled and almost black. Since the cars are so long, I call them anchovies, and the mourners are black olives, although sometimes mourners are in different colors and that's tougher.

Once, there was a big group of old ladies dressed in red, and I decided immediately that they were red peppers. The coffins are nuts; brown and black ones are walnuts or pecans, white and silver are macadamia nuts.

The corpses have to be the meat of course; the chicken or the ham, sometimes salami. I don't get to see the corpses, but you can usually tell by the people who are there.

The cemetery borders my room. Through the only dingy and barred window I'm allowed I watch the salad grow and change; hoping that someday I can get out and be the final ingredient; the Ranch dressing.

My room is all white, so it's perfect.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...