11,041 vagabonds plus:
She decided at dusk was appropriate, and wearing a full length black coat, her face nearly stealth under hood, she pushed the loaded red wheelbarrow with balanced shovel along the muddy pasture lane past the cemetery wrought iron entrance, stopping only once to look if all remained quiet and clear in the windless path. She looked down and cursed the mud-splattered fringes of her coat and scraped goo off her vagabond shoes.
Past the all-clear she huffed it up an incline towards the back of the deserted grounds and halted short of the level wooden property line, falling to a seating position, spitting like an under-payed minor league third base coach. She knew about the minor leagues. She reached into the wheelbarrow, pulled out a moist sample in the pile of papers, and revisited a last line of one of many rejection letters:
...and cease all correspondence with our publishing properties with your 'horror' manuscripts that would send Poe yawning head first into his soggy porridge. May I make a suggestion, Miss Kavanaugh? - Take a shovel and bury it all in your backyard.
She had no back yard, only an uneven courtyard leveled with white rocks season after season. And up above a one room flat on the third floor of a leaning gray brick, one bed, one cracked mirror, a writing table with holes, a gold framed photo of a black magpie - a poor woman's Raven - and one drafty window chilling her ambitions. The muffled pounding of the shovel packed the circular mound of Earth in a hidden flowerless plot filled with plenty of double spaced prose for the dead to read forever more.
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