The cemetery isn't a place that most people like to spend their time in.

No, a place full of dead bodies isn't heavily frequented,

but that is exactly why Andy and I like to go there to hang out.

It's quiet, out of the way, and a peaceful spot to laugh a lot,

and not worry about any other problems.

My favorite thing about our local

graveyard is just how calm it is. The tombstones stay fixed in their positions. There are no

signs of cars passing by. Even the old trees looming over the place don't seem to be bothered

much by the breeze. It's serene in some ways.

Andy and I are the only things moving at all, and that's how it should be.

For us, it's just nice to make jokes and ironically talk about life and a place filled with death.

Andy runs his hand over one of the gravestone faces, trying to

brush away the dirt and grime to get her better look at the faded name etched into it. It's always

been a running joke to find the deceased with the strangest name in the graveyard. The current

dead person in the lead has been a 19th century woman named Deborah Dumpins.

But there was always a chance that she could lose the title, since there were still plenty of grave markers to check.

Warwick, Andy swiped feverishly at the old slate.

It either says Worthington or Wesselton. There's always points for alliteration, I say.

But I still don't think it's better than good old Debbie Dumpin.

Agreed.

He says with a disappointed sigh as he climbs to his feet.

He clicks on his lighter and the flame illuminates the growing darkness of sunset for a moment

...