by J.P Jackson
*
The iron gates of Calvary Cemetery squeaked when Taylor pulled them open. Scotch safely under his arm, he walked a familiar route. Even at 3 am, the cemetery was relatively busy. Cemeteries were no longer lonely places to store the recently deceased and long forgotten, but popular hotspots for history buffs and those who enjoyed hearing a good yarn. After dark, selected graves (those paying the premium) lit up with recorded holograms of the dead. Visitors could sit before a grave, brush their hands over the headstone and a digital ghost of the person buried six feet underneath would appear to share a brief memory, or their whole life story.
Taylor manoeuvred his way through dense trees, passing several grave-stalkers (the term used for enthusiasts) as they cuddled up to hear stories from the past. Some graves remained in darkness, the dead having either chosen not to record a hologram, or simply having left it too late.
Taylor reached a clearing and took a minute to admire the view of Manhattan's glittering towers and the garishly bright advertisements displayed over them. He loved this city.
The grave at Taylor's feet had fresh flowers laid against the headstone and a simple inscription:
Penelope Taylor
2006 - 2041
"Gone. For now."
Taylor bent down to his wife's grave and inhaled the cold night air. Setting his back against the headstone, he removed the lid from his whisky bottle and waited for the sky to explode.
"You won't believe what's coming," he whispered over his shoulder. "It's all going away soon."
He took a large swig and before he swallowed, the shuttle Endeavour seemingly found its mark. The nuclear flash created instant daylight over the iconic city. When the stars returned, streaks of intense colour came with them. Wave after wave of phosphorescent pinks, purples and ghostly greens twisted, warped and rippled overhead.
Taylor squinted at the graves caught under the alien light, and the confused public cowering against them. Seconds later, the aurora dispersed and the show was over. Then began a new and more terrifying show. One by one, the glass temples of the 21st century were plunged into darkness, as if society was being thrust back into the 18th century.
Taylor drank the last of the scotch and despite trying to keep his eyes open, he sagged to one side, grazing the headstone enough to activate the personal hologram.
The message came not from Penelope, but Taylor himself. Dressed in a three piece suit and tie, his face was clean shaven, his hair combed neatly back from his face.
"My name is Hamilton Watt Taylor.” His tone was flat and hard. “There is no body underneath me. This plot is vacant. I bought this headstone so that I could one day break it down.” Taylor's hologram lifted a piece of paper under his nose. “This is a poem I found in a drawer. I don't give a shit about poetry, but she did...does. So...I'd like to read it for her - for you - whoever you are..."
The hologram fractured and tore as Taylor read from the paper.
'Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep,
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am gone from sight,
I am a thief in the night,
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there,
I did not die.'
The image flickered and faded, and propped up against the grave in the dark, Hamilton Taylor was the only soul who slept in The City That Never Sleeps.
— CHAPTER FOUR —
