THE GRAVES WERE FROM BEFORE  the Civil War, the cemetery itself overgrown and off of a path in the woods. Every day, I chose one of the crumbling tombstones, sat with my back against it, and read or drew until the sun went down. The cemetery had gone long forgotten, and so it belonged to me and only me. But one time, something compelled me to not bring my books and notepad and to instead go at night. I made a fire using branches from the surrounding woods, and the flames danced and lapped like a bouquet of tongues. Firelight boldened the names on nearby tombstones. John Sherman Beth Chambers Josephine Jakobi Samuel Hink. I had never thought about the names before, but now each grew in my mind, sprouted heads, arms, and legs and trotted off. I pictured them sitting by the fire, telling stories and roasting corn. Savannah Fitzgerald Quincy Lonebar Abraham Cullpepper. The names locked arms and twirled around me. I fell into the grass and gazed at the night sky. The stars danced. Traced lines. Spelled more names. Alexandra Richardson Penelope Vaughn Crispus Harbuck. These people who had gone years forgotten. But I remember them now, and they belong to me and only me. •



Quinn Adikes’s fiction has appeared in Lit Hub, Five Points, Epiphany, X-R-A-Y, Notch, Shenandoah, and other journals. He is the recipient of the Joseph Kelly Prize for Writing. He lives in Brooklyn and teaches at Gotham Writers Workshop. He is writing a novel.

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