The Tummy Cat
The identical white headstones, aligned with mathematical precision, swept ahead of her, a geometrical tide of mechanical slaughter. She had walked up the small hill, through a tilting meadow that oozed the heavy perfume of a sweltering summers day, a clogging sweetness that rose, entwined and entranced from the rainbow of colours scattered across the shimmering straw-green grass. The massed choir of grasshoppers, bees and other assorted insects had serenaded her every step, a buzzing rustling and clicking cacophony of sound that played to the rhythm of her laboured footsteps. As she reached the brow of the hill the pain reminded her of his presence, her tummy cat had his claws out. They covered the entire hilltop, eight thousand four hundred and twenty four same date-stamped tragedies shining brilliant white. A grotesque hedgehog sculpture of wasted youth. She felt at ease, a warm blanket of understanding enveloped her as she hunted for her great-granddaddy.