Filed under: fiction
Millicent’s coffin sat at the top of the stairs inside the Broadmanor family mausoleum.
Jeremy Broadmanor, Millicent’s nephew, sighed. He had been expecting this. “Gentlemen, your assistance, please.”
The pallbearers carrying the coffin of Jeremy’s father, Frederick, set their burden down and took up the handles of Millicent’s coffin. Jeremy led the way into the crypt.
“Aunt Millicent,” he said, “this is the third time in the past year you have done this. First when we brought cousin Arnold here. Then, eight months later when poor little Theodore died of the measles. And now again as we bring your dear brother to his final rest. It’s just too bad of you, Aunt Millicent, to play this game at such times.”
He shook his head as he looked at the empty space next to the coffin of his other late aunt, Marvela, Millicent and Frederick’s elder sister. He silently directed the pallbearers to place Millicent’s coffin against a wall on the far side of the crypt, then nodded that they should bring his father down.
“I am very sorry, Aunt Millicent,” Jeremy said to the coffin, “but this is as good as it gets. You are as far from Aunt Marvela as it is possible to be in here. You are part of the family and here you will remain. Surely a lifelong feud was enough; you don’t have to carry it on after your deaths, as well.”
The pallbearers returned and placed Frederick next to Millicent, blocking her in her new resting place. Frederick had always tried to make peace between the sisters.
“Thank you, Father, and good luck,” he said.
As Jeremy trod the steps upward, he heard a small noise. He pondered for years afterward whether it was a final huff from his Aunt Millicent or a sigh of relief from someone else entombed there.
Filed under: fiction
Kris’s big green fuzzy dice hung motionless in place.
“They don’t look half bad there,” said Kris’s father.
“No, they don’t,” Kris’s friend Darren agreed.
“I was skeptical, but they work,” Kris’s grandfather said.
“I still don’t think they’re appropriate,” Kris’s mother said. “But I’m not going to argue the point. I suppose they’re not hurting anything, either.”
“I think they’re appropriate,” Kris’s little sister said quietly.
They finally turned away and walked down the little aisle. A man in a dark suit smiled gravely at them and nodded a good night; they would all be back in the morning.
The big green fuzzy dice — which alone had survived the wreck — swung a little as the man closed the casket, and they came to rest on Kris’s chest.
Filed under: fiction
Arnold put a bullet in each of the six chambers.
“Talk about overkill,” he muttered, and made himself chuckle.
He took a last look around his apartment, at the peeling wallpaper in the living room, the leaking faucet dripping on a stack of dishes in the kitchen, the worn carpeting, the old furniture that wouldn’t last long enough to become antique – and it wasn’t his to sell if it did make it that far.
He looked at the stack of bills he had permitted to accumulate on the corner table. They weren’t even all his bills; the previous tenant’s overdue notices were still arriving even after four years.
Arnold looked at the phone. The service had been cut off, but he remembered the last time he had used it. That memory brought him right back to the gun in his hand and the main reason for its being there.
Last words, he thought. I should say something, even though no one is here to listen.
He thought for a couple of moments but nothing interesting came to mind. He finally settled on, “The hell with it,” and raised the gun to his mouth.
The telephone rang.
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Filed under: Catsignal content, haiku
We are storytelling creatures, we humans. Our sentience notices our mortality and mixes with our fear and so we tell ourselves lots of stories about death.
We tell ourselves that the unjust are eternally punished in either darkness or flame. This is especially popular if the unjust are beyond our reach in this life.
Even more important: to stave off our personal dread of the trip each of us must take alone to Hamlet’s undiscovered country, or to console ourselves that the parting we now make with a loved one is not final, we tell stories about a Valhalla or a Heaven, where we and those we love will yet live and enjoy peace and plenty.
When a beloved pet dies, we may tell ourselves a story about how our furry family member has crossed Rainbow Bridge.
As a storyteller, I could probably come up with something good along these lines. But my stories would be no less wish fulfillment than these others. I am increasingly convinced that the only stories to be told at such a time, the only true stories, are those the mourners hold in still-living memory.
Today, I mourn, and I think this is no time for other stories or for the flights of fancy I create.
The more-than-year-long run of one new piece of fiction a week ends here. Grim, tearful reality now rules as we grieve for a wonderful little dog we knew for almost two years. Perhaps there will be more to say about this later; perhaps the stories I hold of him will work their way into other stories that will then be more true because of the sharing. And perhaps we’ll get back on track next week. For now…
how empty the yard
without him -
our well-loved Archie
Filed under: fiction
Marla started working her way through the pile of mail that the girls had been stacking up on the end table. It was mostly sympathy cards, of course. The electric bill, punctual as always. A reminder from her dentist that it was time for her checkup – as if she cared about her teeth after losing the man she’d loved. And an envelope bearing the name of a local law firm. She opened it.
“Dear Mrs. Furst:
“Please accept our condolences on the sudden death of your husband, Jacob. He was quite pleasant to know and we were pleased to have done some work for him shortly before his death.
“Enclosed is a bill for services we rendered before his untimely demise, in the matter of the divorce proceedings he was about to initiate. Needless to say, these arrangements had not been completed, nor had he finalized his new will to include his son, Samuel, by Ms. Torie Champel, whom he was planning to marry at a later date. She has retained our services and you may expect to hear from us again regarding that matter and Samuel’s share in the estate.
“All payments are due 30 days after the date on the invoice.
“Again, we are sorry for your loss.
“Sincerely…”
Filed under: fiction
Nothing like getting up for sunrise Easter services to make for a long day, Ruth thought. It wasn’t such a problem even a few years ago, but now…
Her niece, Clio, and Clio’s husband and two girls came over to take her to church. As always, the service was beautiful, although Ruth was a little distracted.
They went back to Clio’s home afterward for a big brunch and the children explored the goodies in their Easter baskets. Clio drove her Aunt Ruth home about 1 p.m.
“You’re a little quiet today, Aunt Ruth,” Clio said, keeping her eyes on the street.
“Am I? Well, perhaps.”
“I know; it’s not the same.”
Ruth smiled a little. “Nothing is ever the same, dear. Even in our most carefully practiced traditions, something changes, whether large or small.” She sighed. “This latest change, though, is harder to get used to. The hardest one since Mother and then Father died. I’d had years of small changes, or of exciting changes, like your girls coming along. Losing Esther…” She trailed off.
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Filed under: fiction
The funeral had ended. The casket was buried. The dinner at the church had been eaten. The guests had expressed their sympathies and gone.
They were back at the house now, and it was just family. Helen was straightening things up, whether they needed to be straightened or not. Her Uncle Curtis was in the room with her, picking things up, studying them fondly, and setting them down again. Two people were missing.
“Where’d they go?” Helen asked her uncle.
“To Father’s study. The moment the last guest left, they both made a beeline back there to start going over his papers again. They’re going to work out to the penny what he was worth, and no matter what they learn they’ll be angry.”
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Filed under: fiction
Croxen sat down in the booth across from Pereson and, without a word, opened a vial containing a white powder and emptied it into Pereson’s coffee.
The vial went back into his left jacket pocket and he waited.
“Just like that?” Pereson asked, and Croxen nodded.
“Just like that. If you spill it, I have more.”
Pereson stared at his cup and looked fretfully around the little coffee shop.
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Filed under: fiction
The ghost was back again. Every day in the early evening, just for an hour.
“Listen!” the ghost said cheerfully.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.
Warren tried to work around it, tried to do the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, tried to wash the dishes, tried to weed the flowerbed. He could hear it wherever he went in and around his house.
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Filed under: fiction
“Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to Op-Mart.”
“Good morning, sir. Welcome to Op-Mart.”
“Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to Op-Mart.”
“Good morning … Death.” Fred laughed. “Welcome to Op-Mart. That’s quite a costume, sir. Or ma’am. But I’m going to have to ask you to leave the scythe either in your car or over at the help desk while you
shop.”
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Posted on October 29th, 2009 by bryon
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