Grave Consequences: The Time I Stole O.Henry’s Gravestone

The morning sun cast a warm, golden light over the small cemetery in Asheville, North Carolina. The air was crisp, with the scent of pine mingling with the dew on the grass. I stood before the weathered gravestone of O. Henry, the pen name of the celebrated writer William Sydney Porter, feeling a strange mix of reverence and mischievous thrill.

I wasn’t a thief by nature, but a writer — an aspiring one, to be exact. My work had never caught the public’s eye, and I often joked that my obscurity was part of my charm. But it was more frustration than humor that had led me here today. I needed something, anything, to stand out in a world drowning in stories.

As I stared at the gravestone, a wild idea took root in my mind. What if I could capture the spirit of O. Henry, literally and figuratively? What if I could claim to have the legendary writer’s gravestone, infusing my own work with a touch of stolen literary magic?

I glanced around, ensuring I was alone. The cemetery was quiet, save for the distant chirping of birds and the occasional rustle of leaves. I had come prepared with a shovel and a tarp, hidden in the trunk of my car. My heart pounded as I fetched my tools and began to dig, the ground giving way easily to my determination.