A Dead Man Who Held A Shovel

The Fire That Burned

The fire burned bright and hot, engulfing the town in its flames. Joe, a man who usually never showed fear, was overcome with it.

It wasn't just fear he was overcome with: sadness and despair.

His home, the place he had lived for so many years of his undead life, was being burned to the ground in searing fire. The place he had done so much to help, to grow, to thrive.

It was burning as if his efforts had meant nothing at all.

He ran, like the coward he was, he ran till his legs couldn't take it any more, he ran so far that the screams of pain and suffering could no longer be heard.

He found himself in a clearing, behind him, smoke billowed into the night sky.

He could not cry, he could not weep.

He was a skeleton, a dead man, he could shed no tears for the home he had lost.

Joe fell to his knees, then on his elbows. He pounded the soft dirt with a bony hand, leaving an imprint in the ground.

"Curse. . . This. . . Damned. . .World!" He shouted with more pain and anger than he had felt in a long time. "Damn those who take what isn't theirs!" His voice echoed. "And Damn those who think they can make a difference!"

His clenched fist slammed the earth one last time.

He stood a chunk of grass in hand, and threw it for all he was worth.

He couldn't cry, he was dead after all.

When all was said and done, he left nothing behind. He carried the weight of both his living life and his undead on his shoulders, he knew there was nothing for him in this or any other world.

All that he'd worked for was stripped from him in hungry flames.

That day, Joe vowed he would only do things for himself.

Because he knew that if he let something else get his attention, he wouldn't be able to survive.

He would hate others, and treat them how they did him.

He could not cry, no matter how much he wanted to.

For you see, Joe was a skeleton and the undead can't cry.