//random short stories//

Dirt

The girl walks slowly through the rows of headstones, being overly careful not to tread on the spaces where people are supposedly buried. The grass is blotchy against the red dirt. Funny that the dirt would be red, she thought, as she kicks up the bloody dust.
The graveyard is littered with corners of order, crisscrossing and clashing into each other.
Tidy turmoil.
The headstones range from the largest slabs of stone engraved with gold lettering, covered in glittering stones, to the smallest chips of rock poking out from the flat ground, with a single dying rose to its name.
To the girl, humanity seems quite diverse with their dead. Some graves have a single headstone, followed by empty space. Others have body-sized slices of stone, with shimmering colours and bright displays. Some have flowers - pink, red, blue, yellow, orange, and of course the green of the leaves - while others are devoid of colour.
As the young girl, not that much beyond a child, wanders the graveyard, she shudders uncontrollably. The feeling of the dead eats away at her, making her skin crawl.
She stops.
In the ground between two fancy headstones, are four pieces of stone. One embedded in the ground, three sticking up haphazardly from the dirt. The barest resemblance of a gravestone. It's dirty and old. No name is bared.
This is it, the girl thought, this is death.
Death is ugly and hard to look at.
Death is dirty and unkept.
Death has no name. No one place.
Death is the only constant. Ancient and universal. Of tomorrow and today, and millions of years ago.
Death is not a pretty headstone and some flowers.
This, she thought as she looks up at the graveyard one last time, is glorified dirt.