by K. Seagraves

They call themselves the "Cemetery Dead". This stalwart collective of borderline-suicidal U.S. citizens claim allegiance to what they recognize as, "the warm, dark hands of eternal silence and the promise of no tomorrow". Since the moment of their conception, each of these individuals has harbored a private, intense wish to reclaim a lifeless state of non-being. Terri Cory-Phiffer (far left), leader of this revolutionary movement, states the following, "We met by pure coincidence! As if by divine intervention ... The Internet is truly miraculous. Like a waiting room full of God's angels." Cory-Phiffer, age 67, has done absolutely nothing with his life since his junior high school Valentine's Day dance. "I just don't want to talk to anyone anymore! I really would rather be dead," he exclaims, nervously toying with a used cotton swab. Through the Internet, Cory-Phiffer established a network of deeply unfilled, self-loathing companions, who later became his comrades, obsessively extending themselves to death's embrace. "I was only online for 15 minutes," Cory-Phiffer explains, "I don't know why these retards follow me around. It worries me. I don't know how they got my phone number ..." As if on cue, the phone rings. Cory-Phiffer lets his head drop like an anvil into his scaly, sickly hands. One such "retard" and avid supporter of Terri Cory-Phiffer's deathwish is Gloria Derby. "I used to go shopping, you know? Like, at Sam's Club. My husband and I weren't getting along so well, and I couldn't think of a more fitting way to express myself - my unhappiness. I'd always end up buying too much. And then, on AOL, I met Terri ..." Derby, 47, stares blankly through the slats in her blinds, her pale, desperate face twitching once or twice every few minutes. Derby is unique. Unlike other members of the Cemetery Dead group, Derby's resolve seems shaky. "I've fallen in love with Terri. I'd do anything for him. After I left my now ex-husband, I made a vow to never again experience a thought of my own. I am prepared to die in my grave beside Terri." Upon inquiry, Cory-Phiffer had the following to say about Derby's sad display of human emotion. "I hate that bitch," he spat, before leaving the room. As I sat, dumbfounded, in Cory-Phiffer's filthy studio apartment, not yet grasping that my interviewee had fled from further question, I began to wonder, "What the hell am I doing here?" After an hour or so spent crying, I forced myself from the moldy, semi-damp recliner I had been awkwardly perched upon for what seemed like days, and ambled towards the bathroom, where Cory-Phiffer had been holed up for hours. In an attempt to complete what would be my last journalistic assignment, I shouted the most straightforward question I could fathom through the bathroom door. "So then, Mr. Cory-Phiffer, do you believe in God?" I received no reply for half an hour. Finally, I let out a terrible sigh as my forehead sunk into the wall. Terri Cory-Phiffer, from beyond the bathroom door, gurgled and sputtered in a fit of wet coughs and moans. I heard the toilet flush as I rushed from the dark apartment. The Cemetery Dead are certainly revolutionaries. Having gathered absolutely nothing of their grim initiative, and after I hand in this darkly vacant bit of journalistic nothingness, I, Kelly Brooke Seagraves, plan to promptly quit my job and seek the path to enlightenment. I only hope that you, reader, never become as abysmally fucked as these creeps. Bless us all.


Brannan Denney said...

what the fuck? i dont know what to think about this. so lifeless and death-wished? i might want to investigate these creeps. and i am taking care of your journal. i read it. i'll return it to you somehow.

K. Seagraves said...

don't bother investigating. i made these creeps up.