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"The Burial" (the fifty-fourth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Burial" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Feb 15, 2006 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Burial By Cam cam_nine@yahoo.com (Entry #8) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| An ear-shattering crash of metal
hitting metal, followed by the sickening emptiness of not another sound
wrenched Tater’s nose out of the garbage bags she was picking through and
spun her clean around. "Turdle?" She tried to keep her voice from cracking. "Turdle, you okay?" A siren wailed in the distance somewhere so far away it sounded like a mosquito. Otherwise - nothing. Saucer-eyed and white-lipped, staring past the stacks of orange crates and cartons of empty institution-sized bamboo shoot cans piled up behind (according to the take-out menu in one of the bags) “Wang’s Wok-On-In” toward the silent dumpster on the other side of the alley, Tater held her breath for a moment then, doing her best to tune out the voices that had begun (as they seemed to be doing more and more lately) muttering doomsday tunes in her head, was just beginning to negotiate her way out of her little vortex of black plastic bags toward it, when... ...like a bony little seven-year-old Pokemon T-shirted Venus, rising whole from a sea of soggy drywall and stiff paint rags and bent metal chair legs from the gutted vacancy to the left of Wang’s, with plaster dust from the evisceration layered like foam over the all of everything - there, up in the dumpster, wobbled Turdle, gurning his rickety little smile down at her and excitedly waving around a floppy, black, object. That little dope. Always doing something stupid, scaring her half to death. Exhaling her relief, Tater struck a fists-on-hips pose and stomped her slightly too-large, found-sneakered foot. "Turdle, you little jerk, you’re supposed to be up in there looking for cans and bottles and stuff we can use. Not junk." Turdle jostled himself through the sodden paint rollers and splintered two-by-fours closer to the edge of the dumpster and, stretching his little hand over its cruddy green lip, waggled the thing at her. Well, she could see, now, why he was so excited: had it been less crusty, and had both its black plastic coaster ears been intact, it could easily have been the Mickey Mouse hat Turdle had been forced to leave behind this last time she’d had to scurry him out the bed alcove window because the police were suddenly banging on the door, demanding, “Social Services, open up.” Mama was, of course as always when this happened over on North Parrott... making friends... and couldn’t hear the ruckus. Usually Tater had time to grab whatever it was Turdle was being a stupid little kid about at that moment - an action figure, a toy race car - to keep him quiet and moving, but this time it had been especially late and she’d been dozing when the police quietly rolled up to their trailer, so all she’d had time to grab was Mama’s loose change can from her dresser and Turdle’s sticky little hand. And, so, it was, "But my Mickey Mouse hat, Tater! Mama give it to me to ‘tide me’ till she can afford to take me to Disney World for real! I want my Mickey Mouse hat, Tater! I want it! I want it!!" Turdle had squawked the entire way to the "Stop ‘n’ Shop" parking lot where they were - like always - supposed to just stay put behind the dumpster till Mama straightened it out with the police that, swear to God, Tater and Turdle were with her sister up there in Pensacola and, story bought, coast clear, she could come fetch them back to the trailer. "Turdle, you little dope, it’s only a few hours; you can live without your stupid hat for a few hours. Quit crying, would you?" Well... alright, so how was she supposed to know this time, come morning and, then, well into the day, they’d still be hunkered down behind the “Stop ‘n’ Shop” dumpster - stiff and cranky and carefully counting out from a bag of cherry cough drops Turdle had found stuck under its right, front, wheel - till, remembering what Mama had said she should do if she ever didn’t know what to do, she’d decided she and Turdle should probably head on up to Pensacola to where Aunt Lee-Lee was living. At least last time Mama and her were speaking. So, yes, Turdle had had to leave a lot of things behind that day. But so did she. And you didn’t see her crying and scrounging around in garbage cans and on road sides and in dumpsters everywhere they went, trying to collect all those left behind things back. But here was Turdle, the little moron, doing just that. And, now, the rusty old shopping cart she was using to push around Mama’s empty loose change can and some useful things they’d found on the way, here and there, and the bottles and cans they collected to cash-in as they went and, occasionally, even Turdle when he started whining about how his legs were sore from so much walking - was slowly filling up with a mess of tattered comic book covers, and arm- or leg- or head- or all-of-the-above-less action figures, and blown bicycle tires, and even several run-down-heeled shoes just like, Turdle thought, Mama wore. Only missing, with two of them, the right and, with the other three, the left. And the rusty old shopping cart - with its bum back wheel (and especially when Turdle was in it) - was miserable pushing. And, by Tater’s figuring, they still had a long way to go to get all the way up to Pensacola. So, as far as Tater was concerned, one more piece of useless junk - like a messed-up old Mickey Mouse hat with only one ear - was the last thing that needed adding onto her day's trials. So... "Yes, Turdle - a Mickey Mouse hat. Quit waggling it in my face, I see it fine. And it’s disgusting - look at it, it’s got some kind of... gunk... all over it. And it’s missing an ear. And the other ear is cracked. It’s a piece of junk, Turdle.” Sucking her teeth, Tater turned and scuffed back over to Wang’s garbage bags to retrieve the three soda cans and five beer bottles she’d dug out of them, then back again to the cart, talking at Turdle over her shoulder as she scuffed. "And I - we - don’t need to be dragging any more junk around. So quit playing with it. Just leave it be, throw it away. “And, if there’s no cans or bottles or nothing else we can use in that dumpster, then get your stupid little butt down from there and help me with these." She clinked and clanked the new cans and bottles into the cart with the rest of what they’d collected since their last Exit stop, and pulled out her counting fingers. Twenty... twenty-one... twenty-two... twenty-three... Tater allowed a quick grin to lighten her usual stoic mask. Wang’s garbage bags had been a real disappointment to say the least - in with the old menus and paper napkins and broken plates and used wooden chopsticks, just a bunch of fish heads, a few gnawed chicken wings, and a big hunk of partially-eaten fried something-or-other - but between what they’d get for this haul, and what was still in her pocket from the ten dollar bill Turdle had found under the left rear tire of that car parked in front of the Off-Track Betting store the day before yesterday, she figured they’d have enough so each of them could get a plain hamburger and a - small - fries this morning. And maybe even each a small soda, too. Turdle was forever whining about why did he always have to share, so this should make him happy. And, y’know? Good. The little goofball was a pain, but he was only a stupid little kid and doing the best he knew how, under the circumstances. He deserved something for that, Tater nodded to herself. Hearing nothing that sounded like Turdle doing what she’d just told him to do, Tater turned around to see why not. “Turdle, are you still up there? Jeez. Why do you have to be such a pain all the time?" Tater sighed. "Y’know, Turdle....” She was just about to tell him he didn’t need the darned thing, anyways - most likely, if he couldn’t get his old Mickey Mouse hat back, Mama would just buy him a new one - but, frowning, she stopped herself. For some reason, she just couldn’t get those words out. So, instead, she shook her head and... “Okay, look, Turdle, if you really have to have it, I guess it'll be okay for you to keep the stupid hat. But nothing else after this, alright? We’re running out of room in the cart with all your junk. So, gimmie. I’ll put it in with our stuff. "Now, quit sulking and get your stupid little butt down from there so we can cash these cans and bottles in and get some breakfast. And then get back out on the highway. It’s getting late and we’ve got a ways to go to catch up." Tater scuffed over to the dumpster and, on tippy-toes, reached up and gently tugged until the crusty black felt beanie with its one cracked ear loosened from the steely grip of the still-twitching little blue fingers on the motionless little blue hand sticking out between the dumpster’s cruddy green lip and its equally cruddy brown lid. Returning to their cart, she carefully folded the hat and stuffed it in the backpack Turdle had found at the base of a Stop sign several Exits back, to keep company with the page from the newspaper he’d, also, scrounged up a few days ago. The page with the “Calvin and Hobbes” and “Garfield” comic strips he’d wanted her to read to him on the one side and, on the other, the small, almost unnoticeable paragraph about an unidentified woman discovered ten days previous in Okeechobee, in a dumpster behind that “Stop ‘n’ Snooze” over on North Parrott Avenue. And, also, eight days previous, in a garbage bag in a Shell gas station bathroom on Highway 441. And, also, during the past week, in several plastic “Stop ‘n’ Shop” bags and a cardboard shoe box, at various points along the Turnpike. On the road to Disney World, the paragraph had said. Dragging an orange crate over to the shopping cart, Tater tilted it on its end and, folding her arms around herself, sat and scrunched closed her eyes real tight and tried with everything she had to tune out the voices inside that were, now, not a mutter, but a thick and sticky and black and teetering wall of shrieking that seemed about to cressendo and avalanche and bury the world... ...and waited for Turdle to, finally, get his stupid little butt down from there. |
| The Burial By walshnyc@yahoo.com (Entry #15) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| “I don’t believe in
God.” I say it low, barely above a whisper, and turn my eyes to see if mama heard. She is sitting beside me, Sarah pulled close to her, dabbing tears from the corner of her eyes. She didn’t hear. I’m fourteen years old, and haven’t felt like I believe in God in awhile, but this was the first time I dared speak it aloud. I think there is no reason for Him to not prove me wrong if He expects me to believe. I raise my bible and hold it tight against my chest, close my eyes, open my mind, my heart, my ears- and listen… “…ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” I open my eyes at the sound of the pastor finishing up the funeral mass. ‘Dust to dust’ he says, like he knows anything about dust. My daddy used to come home from the mine black as a shadow, covered in the coal dust. Sometimes, when he sneezed, the snot would come out thick and gray, and he had a cough that never seemed to quit. I think he always knew that the mine would be the death of him; I just don’t think he expected it so soon. The pastor said his “amen”, and everybody is standing up and coming towards us. Mama rises from her chair, and I join her. Everyone stops and says something of comfort to her. Some of the women hug her and kiss her cheek. She has let go of Sarah’s hand so she can return some of these hugs, and Sarah looks scared, especially of the people who keep kneeling to talk to her. I step around behind the metal folding chairs and go to her. She is six, but her wide, scared eyes make her look younger. “Are they going to bury daddy now?” she asks. “Yes,” I tell her. “But why?” “Because that’s the way it is.” “Why?” I wish I had the answer. Daddy had told me that people get buried to keep from spreading diseases and having animals eat at their bodies. Mama scolded him and told him that there must be an answer in the bible, and for him to look it up. Daddy had a bible that his mama passed on to him, but he didn’t have much use for it or anything it had to say. He gave it to me and told me to let him know when I found the reason. I never found a really good answer, but I marked a couple of passages that sounded good. I open the book and search for one I can read to Sarah. “For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the later day upon the earth: And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.” I read, and regret it as soon as the morbid sounding words leave my mouth. Luckily, the wording blurs what it says enough that Sarah doesn’t seem concerned about the idea of daddy being eaten by worms. “God bless your little heart, Amelia,” a voice says, and suddenly I’m being pulled into the ample bosom of Mrs. Welch. “Reading the bible to your little sister- you are truly a lamb of God.” She lets go with one arm and pulls Sarah in next to me. A part of me wants to pull away, but I feel obligated not to. Mrs. Welch’s husband George died in the same accident as our dad. I don’t like her, but I think that we are probably comforting her as much as she thinks she is us. George’s funeral is tomorrow. After Mrs. Welch finally lets go of us, I watch as she moves to the end of the line of people paying their condolences to mama. Sarah tugs on my sleeve to get my attention again. “If daddy died because the ground buried him, then why did they dig him up just so they can bury him again?” She asks. I can feel my tears come up with the lump rising in my throat. For sixteen hours after the accident, no one knew if any of the ten miners were alive. When the rescue team heard tapping on a pipe that went to the surface, everyone’s hopes were lifted. When eight men were dug out of the mine alive, folks said it was a miracle, but for some reason that miracle didn’t extend to daddy and Mr. Welch. They had been working the coal drill when the collapse happened, and had suffocated before anyone could get to them. “You know God must have had a plan for our husbands, and I know they are with him now.” Mrs. Welch has reached mama. She has one hand on her shoulder, and the other is under mama’s chin, lifting her face so she can look her in the eye. Mama sobs like she is struggling to catch a breath, and tries to lower her eyes again, but Mrs. Welch won’t let her. “Trust in God,” she says, again and again, nodding while she seems to force mama to do the same. “What do you know about God’s plans?” The words escape my mouth with such anger that even I am startled. All of the adults are staring at me, and Sarah has moved back to mama‘s side. Mrs. Welch looks like someone just slapped her across the face with a wet towel. “I beg your pardon?” “The other night, when the rescuers heard the tapping, and we all thought everyone was alive, you were so sure that God had saved them-- all of them, you were so full of the power and the glory, a person would have thought that God had done you a personal favor or something.” It was true. The mining company had put up all the families at a motel by the interstate, and would give us regular updates in one of the meeting rooms. When they told us about the tapping, Mrs. Welch all but ran around the room extolling the power of prayer. She told me I should drop to my knees and thank the Lord Jesus on that very spot, and probably would have forced me to if someone else hadn’t swept me up into celebratory hug. “Now,” I continue, “you want us to accept that my daddy’s death is God’s will? Why do you get to have it both ways? Why does God?” “Child, you don’t know what you’re saying.” “You don't know anything about my daddy's relationship with God, so I think you should just shut up about God’s plans, and just worry about your husband.” Mrs. Welch glared at me, then turned her head sharply towards my mother, then back to me. “Helen, you need to correct your daughter,” she hissed. “Here,” I say holding my bible out towards her, “show me where it says in here what God’s plans for my daddy are. Then show me where it says what his plans for me and my sister to grow up without him is…” “This is the school’s fault,” Mrs. Welch says, recoiling from my outstretched hand. “They let the children drift too far from their faith with all of that evolution and scientific nonsense…” “Show me!” I insist again. “Amelia, apologize.” Mama seems to have composed herself. She sounds stern, but not angry. “I won’t.” “I’m not telling you to apologize to her; I want you to apologize to me. I’m a Christian too, and I won’t stand for such comments-- especially not here, not today.” “You should call the pastor back to have a word with her,” Mrs. Welch chimes in; “I know she just lost her father, but--” “Elaine, maybe you should move along so Amelia and I can resolve this…” Mrs. Welch replies with a “harrumph”, and takes mama’s advice by leaving. The other adults also seemed to evaporate from our presence. Mama extends her hand to mine, and draws me close. “I didn’t like what she was saying to you,” I tell her as she hugs me tight; “It just doesn’t seem right.” “She was just being a bit overzealous, that’s all. She’s always been that way.” “But I don’t think daddy would want her to say that stuff about him. He didn’t really believe in God anymore.” I say this like it’s a secret I’m sure mama knows, but Sarah does not. “Did he tell you that?” “Yes.” “And you’re worried that maybe God won’t look after him because he said it, right?” This isn’t what I’m thinking at all. I just felt that it was wrong for someone else to impose a fate on my father that he didn’t believe in, especially since I knew how he felt about those sort of things. But mama seems so clear, so convinced about what she believes, I don’t want to hurt her feelings. “I don’t know,” I finally manage to stammer. “Well don’t you worry; your father was a good man, and I’m sure God sees that and will welcome him home.” When daddy told me that he didn’t believe, I asked him why he didn’t, and more important, why most people did. He said that he had more faith in things that he could see and touch, than he did things he couldn’t, and that gave him comfort. He said he thought that the opposite held true for people who embraced religion- it was to buffer them from the randomness of reality. Right now, mama needs that buffer. “Mommy, what are those people doing?” Mama and I both turn in response to Sarah’s inquiry. At the grave, daddy’s casket has been lowered, and a couple are standing there, letting handfuls of dirt sift through their fingers and into the hole. “That’s just a way of saying goodbye,” mama explains. “Would you like to…?” Sarah nods ‘yes’. Mama doesn’t budge, but pulls my free hand and puts Sarah’s into it. She can’t bring herself to move closer, and Sarah can’t go alone. We walk, slow and tentative, stopping at the pile of dirt nearby. She scoops some up with a tiny hand, then we go to the grave. She holds out her hand and opens it, more fascinated with the falling dirt than where it is landing. “Are you going to put some in too?” She asks. “I’m going to need this hand if I do,” I say, guiding her away from the grave’s edge. She walks back toward mama, and I go for my handful of dirt. Back at the graveside, I kneel and look down into the hole. I reach my arm down and open my hand. The bible falls down between the foot of the casket and the sheer side of the rectangular hole. I extend my other hand and let the dirt fall, and watch as the grains of earth spread over the black leather spine before rolling off. I go for more dirt, and repeat the process until the book is completely covered, then rejoin my mother and sister nearby. One day soon, mama will notice my bible is missing and scold me for having lost it. She'll be upset, but she'll get over it. I already have. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #8 Second place: #11 Third place: #4 Fourth place: #16 Fifth place tie: #3, #10 Others receiving votes: #6, #7, #9 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Burial captnmaverick@hotmail.com |
#1 of 17 |
| 1981 | |
| I was thirteen when my great grandmother died. One of
five memories I have of her was when I’d visited her nursing
home—well, damn, the stories were true, the place did hold a lemony Lysol
odor—and I was mortified to sing for an audience that were dead, all but
physically. I went under protest, sang under protest and when finished, I told
the family soundly to go to hell … and don’t forget the Jello cup
they tried to win me over as the went there. I wasn’t a bad kid, per se. Just didn’t stand any bullshit, was all. Another memory was of my sister and I mercilessly teasing the shit out of the old lady. Lack of anything better to do, and since The Lawrence Welk Show didn’t ensconce a six-year-old to the TV the way Bugs Bunny and Woody Woodpecker did, we did the usual stint things that little kids did: blew raspberries, gave her the one finger salute, and put a whole lotta gone between her and my sister and me. She hoarsely screamed the old lady scream of how she was gonna tell on us, we didn’t care. Five hours, we kept this up. Eventually, we went to our basement bedroom for weekend sleepovers, having grown tired of taunting her and we went to bed after a round of CandyLand. We were as good as gold when the partying adults returned home. It didn’t matter. That was the last week for a long while I slept on my backside, too. So, when I learned I was going to my great grandmother’s funeral, man, my hissy fit could’ve started the Iran hostage crisis. “What for?!” I whined as I watched my mother press uniform crisp the only skirt I owned. “She hated me, I don’t wanna go, and you wouldn’t let me go to your mother’s funeral, but I gotta go to this crap? Is Tisha goin’? And how come I gotta go to this when I didn’t get to go to Nana’s funeral?” “No, she’s too young and so were you at the time,” my mother said, still not looking at me. I got the inkling she was enjoying this. “Ma, I don’t wanna go.” “You can wear my good heels.” She had these platform slingbacks that went amazing with the dress; she and I both knew I loved them, but I wasn’t taking that bait. Much. “Ma, I can’t walk in heels, you know I can’t, my ankles turn and I got flat feet,” I protested. Though arguing was futile, sometimes, even if you have to do stuff you don’t want to do, being a pain in the ass about it was a great way to stick it to somebody. Kids learned this bit by the time they were four; I mastered this at two. My sister, safe in our room and listening to Englebert Humperdink on then MusicRadio 770 AM WABC, was howling with laughter at the prospects of my not going looked slim as my voice grew more desperate. “Shut up, asslick!” I yelled. “Now you are going,“ my mother said, giving me the stink eye. “and if you ever call your sister that again, I’ll slap the minty fresh from your mouth.” This remark brought about a fresh round of laughter from my sister and I snickered as she rolled off the bed, still in hysterics, and she hit the floor with a resounding thud. Yeah, yeah, I got the deal real good. I was representin’ the family. It was a showing thing. Talking my way out of going was like trying to grasp smoke: it wasn’t gonna happen. I stomped to the bathroom, showered, dolled up my hair and was fresh and scrubbed clean—and well heeled, I’ll add--when my uncle collected me at 12:30 that afternoon. The day was overcast and cool for late May, and weather reports mentioned it would rain lightly. The term was “drizzle” in 1979 but was later changed to “light rain” to make what weatherheads did for a paycheck sound more important. They had to justify that change, since standing before a smiling sun and an angry cumulous and dancing rain droplets was like Romper Room for Grownups, somehow. I got a three-day weekend from school, anyway. The funeral home was packed with people, most of which I didn’t know or remember. My relatives were all too busy for the kid, so I sat and observed. The occasional, “Oh, my, my, you got so big!” or “Well, well, is this Pam’s baby?” or “So, how’s school?” passerby would greet me as they’d smile benignly, then move to my grieving Granny seated in the wing backed chair just before the open casket. Otherwise, I was “politely” ignored. The minister soon stood and cleared his throat some as the gatherers took their seats and quieted down. From my vantage point I counted seven hats, three suit scarves and eight double-breasted suits. My Aunt Helyne’s husband, Jim, was the only one wearing a silk china blue handkerchief in his breast pocket; it was a lovely diversion to the superwide and just as loud necktie he wore. I don’t remember all what the minister said, but it was a loving tribute just the same. From the crowd came lots of “Amens”! and “Lord, she was a good woman,” with one or two, “Jesus, take her onto Thee.” that punctured the otherwise respectful silence. I thought I heard a mention about me as I was falling asleep, and in fact, I did get one. “Blanche loved her great-granddaughter’s voice, and her friends at the Roosevelt Greene Rest Home loved it as well. Her rendition of “Paper Moon” so brought back memories for her beloved friends there, they just enjoyed her singing so much …” My grandmother began to sob. I rolled my eyes and sunk lower in my chair. Either this guy was laying it on Fluffenutter thick or I really did do a helluva job some three months prior. Sure, I got praised for my singing—I’m a natural tenor but usually stay in alto—but I didn’t want to do it that day, it was old people for Pete’s sake. Still … as he spoke those unexpected words … a tingle of satisfaction and self congrats stole over me …. …and I teared up in spite of myself. Looking left again, my Granny, I saw, the usually grounded matriarch of the family, just broke. She sobbed inconsolably, crying over and over, “Oh, Mother, I do miss you … how I miss you so.” Her daughter, my aunt, led her away to the waiting cars. We followed silently in the receiving line past the coffin, I respectfully saying goodbye, picking my feet up like I were a prancing pony and was amazed at the way caskets were metal too and how they made it look like a bed. As we filed from the funeral home, I quietly blew my nose with a Kleenex someone offered me … then cussed under my breath as my left ankle buckled and I stumbled into an usher. Damn heels. “As we bade this centurion Blanche Brown a loving farewell and send her to the waiting arms of a mighty God,” offered the minister as his assistant handed each one of us a rose, “take this rose as a token of her love and steadfastness of what she would want her loved ones to know and offer her. You all are her legacy. May you make her proud.” I told my mother my ankles would turn in these damn things! What a day to learn how to walk in heels for the first time. A steady drizzle had begun to mist as we met at the final resting place. One by one, as the minister read Psalm 23, the mourners placed their single flower atop Blanche’s casket. We stood in a circle doing this, taking turns, then with a bowed head, a mourner would retreat from the plot and either pray quietly or stand in silence. I’d already decided long before my turn came to keep my flower, thinking it was mine to keep in the first place. It was my turn to place the rose. I gave the group a “What, who, me?” look, caught a few “Don’t you even think about keeping that flower!” stink eyes, and sucking my teeth lightly, stepped forward to place my rose. My right foot landed atop the casket, I bend to place my rose, stepped back … and the nickel plated casket, now slick with rainwater, didn’t give me enough friction to step back from the site, my right ankle turned--- ---and I tripped, and found myself hanging on Blanche’s casket’s metal bars, a dark hole yawning before me. “Hey!” I yelled, “Somebody get me out!” but this was amid the ”What the fuck?!”, “Charlie, get her out outta there!”, ”Shit, the kid’s that slender to fit between the casket side and the grave wall?”, “Oh my God!”, "Missye, are you all right?" and “Did she fall in?” cacophony. Three guys hauled me outta there, I was scared blue, the back of me was somewhat soiled and my heart was about to burst from thudding so hard in my chest. All I remember was a sliver of light, the darkness gaping before me and the resounding mental cussing I gave my mother for putting me in heels that damn day! And, hell’s bells, I didn’t see the casket lowered into the ground, either. Not that I was that anxious to, but I thought it was a respectful thing to watch at the time. The cemetery director kept apologizing to me, I retold my story about fifty-seven times that day, and he offered me a rose after all. My Granny and the rest of the relations, though they were angry and convinced I took that spill on purpose, were glad I was actually fine. Yeah, I was. Shaken, not stirred, you could say, but I didn’t attend a burial for a long time after that one. The limo ride past Blanche’s last home—my grandmother’s home in St. Alben’s, New York before their move to Montclair, New Jersey in 1984—was a bereavement tradition, as far as I knew. People usually looked to the home as a remembrance tribute to the one passed and funnily enough, the sun broke through the clouds as the idle cars stood before the home for a few minutes. It was I who broke the silence in the usually tactful, timely and modest manner so accustomed of me, “And we’re driving past here, why? We all knew she lived here, so what?” As the driver drove, I asked him rather politely, “Hey, can you put on the radio?” He complied. The disco song “Cone To Me” was playing and I absent-mindedly started to sing to it. Again, the stink eyes followed me. “Hey, I had a trauma and she liked my singing, the minister said,” I said logically. “Why can’t I sing?” “Because it’s not appropriate, stupid,” my cousin hissed at me. As my uncle, her father chuckled, I hissed back, “Yeah, like it was appropriate to see me almost fall in a grave, too? I told you I didn’t want to give up my rose, but nobody listened to me.” “You got a rose, Missye, hush up about it,” Granny said to me from the front seat. I hushed up about it, out of respect for her. And, after I ate my fill of food from the wake and got driven home by my uncle--by then, the NYC streets were rain soaked and slick with rainbow colored oil puddles--naturally he told my mother what happened that day. I raged past her and announced from my room as I flung off the soiled dress, “Not a good day to learn how to walk in heels, Ma!” |
|
| The Burial Suzie Bea suzanne.h.burns@hotmail.com |
#2 of 17 |
| 295 | |
| Everything Changed forever, For all eternity, in that one moment, such a small flash in time. And yet all around me the world just carried on, Uncaring, unknowing. Politicians kept on antagonising and lying, and shopkeepers and Robbers still purloined and pilfered, And boys and men persisted in Absorbing themselves with games of football, Even though you weren’t There to join in. And No day of mourning was called. And always, at night, I would dream that it Was all just a dream, so that I became Confused about what reality Really was. Every morning, when I awoke still exhausted, It collided with me again, crashing into me with tireless Energy, uniquely original each time, always somehow totally unexpected Just like the first time I heard those words, causing A sickening thump to sink heavily, like concrete, In my stomach. Nothing Now could Ever be the same, My life’s course had been altered Irrevocably. I stood, Still shocked, stunned, staggered, unable to comprehend, As somebody, I’m not sure who, Lobbed earth onto you - disrespectful, So final. Earth to Earth Ashes to Ashes Dust to Dust. And I’m not sure whether I actually did throw myself into the muddy hole They lowered you into, Chasing you, pleading With you to come back to me, or whether I imagined it, maybe I wanted to, or perhaps I dreamt I did. We come from Nothing and to Nothing do we Return. And as I walked Away from you, Forever abandoning you to the Soil to be eaten by worms and to decay and putrefy, I couldn’t endure thinking of you, all alone there, and frightened, And so I left a piece of me behind, to join you, That part of me which died When you died. |
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| The Burial Michael Pelc michaelpelc@yahoo.com |
#3 of 17 |
| 803 | |
| The ground has a bit of a chill to it this morning. I
wonder if the others sense it as well, and if they do, are they bothered by it.
"Voices! I think I hear voices," says Haskins, interrupting the meaningless meanderings of my mind. His plot is three rows over, near the fallen poplar tree, where he worries constantly about termites. "Callicoat!" he shouts, "are they over there near you? Can you tell?" Callicoat doesn't answer. Perhaps he's still mad. Everyone hopes that's the case, though they fear the worst: that the maggots have gorged themselves on the last morsel of what used to be his brain. His casket did not weather the spring floods well. "No, they're not over that way, they're here by me." It's Lambert, who used to be an engineer back when he was alive. "You sure?" Haskins wants to know. "Yes, I felt the jostling on my right side when they were digging the hole." "I still want to hear from Callicoat," says Haskins, though he knows he won't. It strikes me as strange how hope lingers in this place. "Listen, I know digging when I feel it, and I felt digging. It was definitely digging," says Lambert, sticking to the facts of the matter. "Oh, I do hope you're right, Mr. Lambert. I so love a new burial, you know." It's Zelski, who's been dead longer than any of the rest. If there were a mayor to this place, it would be Zelski. "Anyone know anything about the newbie yet?" asks Haskins. "What they did? Where they lived? Man or woman?" "Please, Mr. Haskins, put it back in your pants if you would. There are ladies present, you know. Besides, I doubt the body's even cold in the grave yet." The ladies giggle at Zelski's comment. I suspect they are imagining Haskins trying to tuck his dead penis back inside his pants. I wonder if corpses blush. "I was just being curious. Trying to be neighborly, that's all," insists Haskins. No one believes him. Haskins, it seems, has a reputation, and it is not a good one. It is because of him that the ladies do not speak to anyone any more. Personally, I wish that someone would come along and exhume him and get him the hell out of here, if only for a while. I should think it would be a long eternity without any female companionship. "Quiet, please. I need everyone to be quiet." It's Lambert, the dead engineer again. "What is it, Mr. Lambert? What do you hear?" asks Zelski. "I think the ceremony is about to start." "All right, everyone, quiet down. Remember, this is a very solemn occasion for the topsiders up there. I hope I don't have to remind you how important it is for us to show proper respect for the newly deceased." I like the way Zelski runs the place, the way he mixes compassion with directness, humor with respect. When my time comes for real, I can't think of a graveyard I'd rather be buried in -- except maybe one that didn't have a Haskins. "It's a man," Lambert announces as he begins his play-by-play for the benefit of those who are buried too far away to hear for themselves. "A writer ... doing research for some sort of contest ... having himself buried alive, he is." "Aw, shit, not another one of them not-yet-dead writer types," gripes Haskins. "What the hell's the matter with those people up there? We just got three of them in here last week alone." "Not to mention two the week before that," adds Lambert, who I suspect has smuggled a computer into his coffin with him and has a database with the name, occupation, and shoe size of everyone who ever trod on the green side of the grass above us. "Maybe I've been dead too long to remember," says Zelski, "but for the life of me, I don't understand why these people can't use their imagination a little bit and leave us alone. Is death so hard to figure out that they can't do it by themselves?" Though I am sure he means me no ill will, for that is not his style, Zelski's comments make me feel like I am no longer welcome here in the cemetery. Following the plan my brother-in-law and I set up in advance, I remove my cell phone from my pocket and punch in his number so that he can come and dig me up. The recording I get tells me it is sorry that my call can not be completed at this time, and that I should try again later when the system is not as busy. I slip the phone back into my pocket. I do not try again later. |
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| The Burial PSGifford psgifford@earthlink.net |
#4 of 17 |
| 1364 | |
| It was the quietest of Sunday mornings; in fact if it
wasn’t for the occasional bird chirp, there would have been virtually no
sound at all. It was indeed, such the loveliest of mornings in Waxbury that
even the mere thought of something bizarre happening, would seem very
extraordinarily out of place. Waxbury is a small, yet prosperous, village hidden discretely in the heart of the Derby Dales. It is the sort of town that had the feeling that time had simply stopped. There were all the usual businesses to be found in this picturesque spot; a post office, butchers, newsagents, greengrocers and a few other small, quite ordinary shops, There was also a pub and a 14th century Church… However if you looked a little off the main street, tucked away on the outskirts of the village there was also to be discovered an undertakers. Alas every town needs one… On this particularly fateful morning Archibald Higgins was humming to himself as he drank his morning coffee and sizing up the body in front of him. ‘A beauty this time,’ he considered as a wicked grin permutated onto his corpulent lips. Archibald had amassed a small fortune from his chosen career choice, not just from his salary, which was admittedly in itself fairly adequate, no his little nest egg had been accumulated from something far more sinister. Many years ago he discovered that the poor departed that came his way were often dressed in their grandest finery. This often included exceptional watches, jewelry (cufflinks were his favorite!) and even gold teeth; yes, gold teeth, over the last thirty years he must have removed and melted down hundreds of them, having mastered his technique to almost an art. ‘Anyhow’, he thought draining the last few drops of coffee from his cup, ‘business before pleasure.’ It was time for him to begin on the paperwork that the Government required; copies of death certificate, burial arrangements and the final release form-this was all his responsibility. After all he was the very last person to be looking into the coffin before finally sealing it. Name of Deceased- Jessica Christina Brown Cause of death- Heart attack Age 72 Date of death July 22nd 2004 Burial site- Waxbury Church, Waxbury High Street. 11:00 AM Archibald signed it, and left complete, yet mundane instructions, for the bodies transit to the final resting place as he always did attached it to the brass handles on the casket. This was the best coffin he carried; he chuckled to himself as he recalled her poor husband. ‘That chap was so drowned in grief he would have signed anything!’ He began to closely examine Jessica’s body. On her right wrist she wore the largest tennis bracelet Archie had ever seen. His eyes grew to such an alarming size when they nest fell upon the oversized diamond ring they appeared as if they might easily burst from his well rounded, piggy face at any moment. “This is my lucky day!” he said out loud softly as he licked his lips. His excitement grew even more profound. As he then noticed hanging solemnly from her ear lobes the most exquisite earrings Archie had ever seen. ‘Bloody Jack pot!’ He gleamed to himself. As was his curious practice, he reached into the casket which was sitting on the oversized mahogany table and by grabbing her cold clammy hands pulled her up into a sitting position. Next, breaking into a slight sweat from the exertion, he lifted up the limp body. This was always the trickiest bit of the process, but experience had taught him to thoroughly examine the bodies, removal from the casket is always essential. Some of the greatest discoveries were often hidden discretely on the unfortunate’s person. As he reached in the casket, he felt it shake; ‘I am getting far too old for this.’ He considered. The lid quivered back and forth as he raised Jessica abruptly from her last resting place. He maladroitly carried her over his shoulder into his private quarters, which were through a short corridor, at the rear of the property, and laid her clumsily on his kitchen table. Rubbing his hands together with excitement he set a about the task at hand with evident glee… He glanced at the clock and realized he was going to have to hurry, it was already after nine and they would be there for the pick up by ten. The bracelet was easily and promptly unclipped. The ring though gave him more of a struggle; it took a few moments, and a little bacon fat, to finally remove it. Now it was time for him to retrieve his prize the ear rings, ‘one is missing,’ he realized, ‘it must have fallen off whilst I was removing the damned body.’ Glancing once more at the clock ’I am going to have to hurry.’ He sped back along the corridor mumbling to him self as he went, and peered into the coffin. ‘Ah, there it is,’ as he saw it glistening on the silk that lined the coffin. Archibald reached in and tried to retrieve it, but not being the tallest of men, and being rather well rounded, he could not quite reach. “Blast, blast, blast I am going to have to get into the bloody thing.’ He gracelessly pulled himself up, and within a few moments there he was on his hands and knees inside the encasement, grunting and huffing as he went. His awkward, fat stubby fingers grasped for the jewel and after he retrieved it, he excitedly jumped back, and hit his head on the propped up lid…A vibrating jolt was sent shuddering throughout the casket and with a thump it slammed shut, and the substantial weight of the lid promptly met with the flabby tenderness of the back of his bald head. Archibald groaned once and then there was silence… At just past the allotted time the hearse pulled up outside to take the coffin to its final internment, the four men who were running behind desperately needed to make up time. Hurriedly they confirmed the paperwork, and as everything appeared to be in order, they promptly lifted the casket out of the parlor and onto their vehicle… Archibald suddenly awoke, momentarily confused as to where he was or how long he had been out. As his memory began to return, panic and fear overcame him and he pushed with all his strength against the lid. Yet it refused to move. His dread heightened as his breathing deepened. Archie’s concentrated fully about his task, and pushed again. Once more it refused to move, not even a fraction. Desperately he began banging his fists ferociously against the silk lined lid. Tears filled his eyes, and he screamed as he began to comprehend the grim fate that lay before him. It was a modest funeral, only about a dozen stoic people watched on as the coffin was gradually lowered into the musky earth. As the vicar read the appropriate words, as he had so often done, there were those amongst them, however, who could have sworn that they heard the faint muffled sound of somebody screaming… The days quickly came and went after that, and everything in Waxbury carried on completely as normal. It wasn’t for almost three weeks that the disappearance of Archibald became apparent. He was, after all, not a well-liked man. In fact it was only when his services were required that anyone much bothered with Archie at all. So if it had not been for poor old Mr. Roberts suddenly dieing in his sleep they would have never even bothered to search for him. Upon investigating the police reluctantly went to the funeral home. They knocked upon the door and after no-one answered, they felt compelled to break it down. The first thing they noticed was the putrid stench; it had been a particularly warm summer. They quickly discovered the horrible scene of the decomposing corpse of Jessica still upon the kitchen table. “The funny thing about the corpse though,” remarked the constable as he contained his urge to vomit, “I could have sworn she was… well smiling.” |
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| The Burial Henrick Glutonlumps princeofthegnomes@yahoo.com |
#5 of 17 |
| 345 | |
| As I consumed my morning pot of tea and perused my copy
of the daily telegraph I suddenly noted the date. Instantly my half awake brain
became completely overcome with poignant, childhood memories. You see it was an
almost unbelievable thirty years ago on this very date that I had to bid
goodbye to Sebastian… It was a typically drab, overcast Yorkshire morning on that sad day. I can recall with vivid clarity crying my self to sleep the evening before and my mother whispering through her own tears that it would be okay, and that we must go on forth with our lives. She explained to me lovingly that is what Sebastian would have wanted. Despite her words I did not think it was ever going to be okay ever again, and I suspected that neither did she.. That morning, with blood shed eyes, I put on a black pair of trousers, a white shirt and my school tie, it was the only tie that I owned, and I wanted to look my very best. I was unable to eat breakfast that day. I sat at the kitchen table and glumly looked at my bowl of oatmeal, occasionally stirring it with my spoon. As I sat there in silence, I was reliving all those wondrous moments we had shared together. My father tapped me on the shoulder and solemnly informed me that we needed to make a start. So, there we were all huddled about. My three younger brothers and sister were also still in shock. We were all having trouble comprehending what was going on. I am not, or have never been, much of a religious person. But on that day, as we listened to bible verse being read, the words resonated in my young mind. It was then that my father looked at me, straight into my eyes. “It is time.” With that he flushed the toilet. I am teary eyed as I type this. Sebastian, please understand, was the very best goldfish a young boy could have ever hoped for. |
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| The Burial lee10@host365.com |
#6 of 17 |
| 298 | |
| The warm June rain drifts across the cemetery; a gauze curtain, earthed to newly mown grass. The dark maw of interment, hidden beneath old planks is edged with greengrocers’ mock grass and purple cloth to disguise the pain of heaped raw earth. A child’s grave is falsely gay. Pot rabbits and plastic teddies nestle amongst the petals of a solid carpet of summer flowers. Primary-coloured windmills at each corner whirl steadily in defiance of the day’s greyness. Newly planted saplings, the solid frame of a young purple beech and the green froth of delicate silver birch promise the mourners a future, a continuity, that goes unnoticed, as they wait, huddled under sombre umbrellas; a stand of funereal mushrooms. A blackbird, dressed for the occasion, plays tug ‘o war with a stubborn worm. “We haven’t got all day,” his mate scolds. She bustles up, takes the worm from his beak and flies off to feed their young. An impish magpie, one for sorrow, looks on, considering his options: to steal the next worm, or to raid a nest of plump young blackbirds? Walkers pass along the lane, their anoraks brightly disrespectful. A thin, old man, wrapped tightly in his pain, turns his back, hunching his shoulders against the bleakness of the day, that June warmth cannot dispel. The gravedigger, in greasy cap and dirt-streaked overalls removes the planks. Carefully he places a handful of soil at the head of the grave, for the symbolic return of earth to earth. Brushing his hands on his thighs he retreats, as the hearse appears down the lane. Slowly, remorselessly, the glass-sided car carries its burden to the place where damp and decay will return flesh and bone to primordial constituents. The old man holds up his hand; waves his final goodbye. |
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| The Burial heidib@iinet.net.au |
#7 of 17 |
| 1347 | |
| Hester’s large fingers pounded the keyboard. She
silently thanked God that the lights in the office were dim enough that the
girls wouldn’t be able to see her red face, burning with embarrassment as
they continued on with their conversation. It was the same every day. The Bambi Triplets, as Hester secretly called them due to their platinum blonde hair and tiny waists reminding her of cheap porn stars, would walk into the office after lunch and groan about the amount of food they had just consumed. “I ate half a tuna sandwich AND an apple.” Bambi number one said, looking at the other girls for confirmation that she was in fact, an overeater. Hester kept thumping at the keyboard, “Oh please don’t ask me, please don’t ask me.” She prayed, like she did every day. “Oh Gawd,” another Bambi sighed. “I ate just as much as you, and I am heaps fatter. Look,” and to prove it, the small blonde girl yanked her shirt up, revealing a flat, tanned stomach. Pinching as hard as she could, she managed to pull a centimetre of tight skin from her perfect body. The other two girls nodded sympathetically. “Perhaps we should go for a jog after work.” One of them suggested as they all turned back to their nail filing. Hester breathed out, thank God the lunch talk was over. She had survived it for another day. Or had she? Suddenly swivelling on her chair, Bambi number three stared over at Hester. “And what did you have for lunch?” She said it innocently enough, but Hester knew they were just trying to make themselves feel better. With her face still burning red, Hester looked up at the girls from under her dark black hair. She was the only non-blonde in the office, and the only one that wasn’t a size 8. “Uh, I had a…(deep breath)…milkshake and…” Hester stopped as she heard a collective gasp. Bambi one and two had stopped filing their nails and now all three were staring hard at Hester’s round face. “A milkshake?” One of them asked again, barely concealing her disgust. “It was low-fat milk.” Hester grumbled, turning back to her desk. Jesus, what would they have said if she told them the milkshake was just to wash the hamburger and fries down? There was an awkward silence as the girls turned back to their nails, digesting the information Hester had just shared. God she hated this job. Walking home in the afternoon heat, Hester tried not to let a tear slip from her pretty blue eyes. Her thighs were rubbing together and sweat trickled down her face, making her dark hair stick to her ruddy cheeks. “It’s time for another burial.” She considered guiltily. No, she thought, straightening up. She had promised last time that she wouldn’t do it again. And it had only been a month! Hester rounded the corner of her street and noticed Blake in his garden next door to her cottage. She had had a crush on him as long as she had lived here, and instantly turned red every time she saw him. Please don’t notice me, she prayed as she got closer. As if reading her mind, Blake looked up and yelled out a warm greeting. Fuck. Mumbling a quick hello, Hester put her head down and rushed up the stairs to her front door. “You are disgusting.” Hester was talking to her reflection in the mirror. She had stripped from her sweaty clothes and was now standing naked, inspecting each part of her body closely. There had been a time when she had liked her curves, had thought she was quite sexy with her full form. But since she started working with the Bambi Triplets, she had started to realise that a size sixteen was considered disgusting. How could she be sexy, when these tiny little girls were obviously so flawed? So each day, in order to help with her diet that she was always planning to start ‘tomorrow’, Hester came home from work and scrutinized her body, picking out all the faults that she hadn’t noticed until the Bambi Triplets had pointed them out on themselves. Hester’s hands slid over her body as she gazed, remembering what she used to love about herself. She had large ample breasts that swayed gently when she walked and her tummy - while big and soft - was womanly. The type of stomach that a man could rest his head on after a long session in the bedroom and feel completely at home. Not that there had been a man for, well, more months than she would care to admit! In fact, Hester thought, turning to the side and inspecting her body further, there hadn’t been a man since she started her new job nine months ago! Running her hands over her butt, she thought about Johnny, her last boyfriend. He had loved to slap and knead her large, round behind. It was the kind of backside that attracted many wolf whistles from construction sites, not that that was any mean feat. Oh how she missed men, and she missed how she might have acted had she known Blake from next door a bit earlier in life. “That’s it!” Hester thought, determined once again – as this was a daily routine – “There will be another burial tonight!” Moving around the house at top speed Hester grabbed every bad item she could find. Filling a large washing basket, she went from kitchen to bedroom to bathroom and even laundry room! She was amazed at just how much crap she had managed to collect. “The Burial” was a ritual Hester had become accustomed to. It usually involved her putting all the junk food she could find, all the naughty bad things that contributed to her womanly curves, into a large hole in the backyard and ceremoniously burying it. She had to bury it, instead of simply throwing it out, because ashamed as she was, Hester would sometimes go sneaking back to the bin late at night for a sweet taste of cinnamon roll or whatever was lying in hands reach. It was nightfall as Hester headed into her small back garden. Looking for another burial spot, one that hadn’t been used recently, she thought about how nice her garden would start to look once she had finished with this mad rite. Because this would be the last one, she vowed again, this would be the last time. Choosing a dark corner, on the far left hand side of her yard, Hester pushed the shovel into the soft earth. Perhaps, once the grass had grown back over all her burial sites, she could buy an outdoor table and entertain all the new friends she was going to make. With fierce determination, Hester kept digging until she had satisfied herself that she had gone deep enough. Straightening up, she stared down at the washing basket beside her on the ground. It was filled to the brim with all the evil items of her house. How different this burial was going to be, Hester thought. How shocked the Bambi Triplets were going to be! Wiping her brow, Hester took a deep breath and leaned down to pick up the heaving basket. As she threw the wares into the dark hole, she could already feel relief flooding through her. Starting to fill the now bulging grave, Hester looked at the dirt splattering onto the items that had taunted her over the last nine months. There was every diet book you could imagine, slimming pills, detox drinks, meal replacements. The dirt kept covering. Bathroom scales, measuring tapes, motivational CD’s. Oh it felt good to watch the earth fall onto this rubbish! Feeling full of renewed hope and life, Hester wondered cheekily if Blake was at home alone tonight. Wiping the dirt from her hands, she laughed. Oh yes, she would definitely show those Bambi Triplets. They would be so shocked when they saw that Hester could be a beautiful, sexy woman…fat, flaws and all! |
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| The Burial Cam cam_nine@yahoo.com |
#8 of 17 Winner |
| 1789 | |
| An ear-shattering crash of metal hitting metal,
followed by the sickening emptiness of not another sound wrenched Tater’s
nose out of the garbage bags she was picking through and spun her clean around.
"Turdle?" She tried to keep her voice from cracking. "Turdle, you okay?" A siren wailed in the distance somewhere so far away it sounded like a mosquito. Otherwise - nothing. Saucer-eyed and white-lipped, staring past the stacks of orange crates and cartons of empty institution-sized bamboo shoot cans piled up behind (according to the take-out menu in one of the bags) “Wang’s Wok-On-In” toward the silent dumpster on the other side of the alley, Tater held her breath for a moment then, doing her best to tune out the voices that had begun (as they seemed to be doing more and more lately) muttering doomsday tunes in her head, was just beginning to negotiate her way out of her little vortex of black plastic bags toward it, when... ...like a bony little seven-year-old Pokemon T-shirted Venus, rising whole from a sea of soggy drywall and stiff paint rags and bent metal chair legs from the gutted vacancy to the left of Wang’s, with plaster dust from the evisceration layered like foam over the all of everything - there, up in the dumpster, wobbled Turdle, gurning his rickety little smile down at her and excitedly waving around a floppy, black, object. That little dope. Always doing something stupid, scaring her half to death. Exhaling her relief, Tater struck a fists-on-hips pose and stomped her slightly too-large, found-sneakered foot. "Turdle, you little jerk, you’re supposed to be up in there looking for cans and bottles and stuff we can use. Not junk." Turdle jostled himself through the sodden paint rollers and splintered two-by-fours closer to the edge of the dumpster and, stretching his little hand over its cruddy green lip, waggled the thing at her. Well, she could see, now, why he was so excited: had it been less crusty, and had both its black plastic coaster ears been intact, it could easily have been the Mickey Mouse hat Turdle had been forced to leave behind this last time she’d had to scurry him out the bed alcove window because the police were suddenly banging on the door, demanding, “Social Services, open up.” Mama was, of course as always when this happened over on North Parrott... making friends... and couldn’t hear the ruckus. Usually Tater had time to grab whatever it was Turdle was being a stupid little kid about at that moment - an action figure, a toy race car - to keep him quiet and moving, but this time it had been especially late and she’d been dozing when the police quietly rolled up to their trailer, so all she’d had time to grab was Mama’s loose change can from her dresser and Turdle’s sticky little hand. And, so, it was, "But my Mickey Mouse hat, Tater! Mama give it to me to ‘tide me’ till she can afford to take me to Disney World for real! I want my Mickey Mouse hat, Tater! I want it! I want it!!" Turdle had squawked the entire way to the "Stop ‘n’ Shop" parking lot where they were - like always - supposed to just stay put behind the dumpster till Mama straightened it out with the police that, swear to God, Tater and Turdle were with her sister up there in Pensacola and, story bought, coast clear, she could come fetch them back to the trailer. "Turdle, you little dope, it’s only a few hours; you can live without your stupid hat for a few hours. Quit crying, would you?" Well... alright, so how was she supposed to know this time, come morning and, then, well into the day, they’d still be hunkered down behind the “Stop ‘n’ Shop” dumpster - stiff and cranky and carefully counting out from a bag of cherry cough drops Turdle had found stuck under its right, front, wheel - till, remembering what Mama had said she should do if she ever didn’t know what to do, she’d decided she and Turdle should probably head on up to Pensacola to where Aunt Lee-Lee was living. At least last time Mama and her were speaking. So, yes, Turdle had had to leave a lot of things behind that day. But so did she. And you didn’t see her crying and scrounging around in garbage cans and on road sides and in dumpsters everywhere they went, trying to collect all those left behind things back. But here was Turdle, the little moron, doing just that. And, now, the rusty old shopping cart she was using to push around Mama’s empty loose change can and some useful things they’d found on the way, here and there, and the bottles and cans they collected to cash-in as they went and, occasionally, even Turdle when he started whining about how his legs were sore from so much walking - was slowly filling up with a mess of tattered comic book covers, and arm- or leg- or head- or all-of-the-above-less action figures, and blown bicycle tires, and even several run-down-heeled shoes just like, Turdle thought, Mama wore. Only missing, with two of them, the right and, with the other three, the left. And the rusty old shopping cart - with its bum back wheel (and especially when Turdle was in it) - was miserable pushing. And, by Tater’s figuring, they still had a long way to go to get all the way up to Pensacola. So, as far as Tater was concerned, one more piece of useless junk - like a messed-up old Mickey Mouse hat with only one ear - was the last thing that needed adding onto her day's trials. So... "Yes, Turdle - a Mickey Mouse hat. Quit waggling it in my face, I see it fine. And it’s disgusting - look at it, it’s got some kind of... gunk... all over it. And it’s missing an ear. And the other ear is cracked. It’s a piece of junk, Turdle.” Sucking her teeth, Tater turned and scuffed back over to Wang’s garbage bags to retrieve the three soda cans and five beer bottles she’d dug out of them, then back again to the cart, talking at Turdle over her shoulder as she scuffed. "And I - we - don’t need to be dragging any more junk around. So quit playing with it. Just leave it be, throw it away. “And, if there’s no cans or bottles or nothing else we can use in that dumpster, then get your stupid little butt down from there and help me with these." She clinked and clanked the new cans and bottles into the cart with the rest of what they’d collected since their last Exit stop, and pulled out her counting fingers. Twenty... twenty-one... twenty-two... twenty-three... Tater allowed a quick grin to lighten her usual stoic mask. Wang’s garbage bags had been a real disappointment to say the least - in with the old menus and paper napkins and broken plates and used wooden chopsticks, just a bunch of fish heads, a few gnawed chicken wings, and a big hunk of partially-eaten fried something-or-other - but between what they’d get for this haul, and what was still in her pocket from the ten dollar bill Turdle had found under the left rear tire of that car parked in front of the Off-Track Betting store the day before yesterday, she figured they’d have enough so each of them could get a plain hamburger and a - small - fries this morning. And maybe even each a small soda, too. Turdle was forever whining about why did he always have to share, so this should make him happy. And, y’know? Good. The little goofball was a pain, but he was only a stupid little kid and doing the best he knew how, under the circumstances. He deserved something for that, Tater nodded to herself. Hearing nothing that sounded like Turdle doing what she’d just told him to do, Tater turned around to see why not. “Turdle, are you still up there? Jeez. Why do you have to be such a pain all the time?" Tater sighed. "Y’know, Turdle....” She was just about to tell him he didn’t need the darned thing, anyways - most likely, if he couldn’t get his old Mickey Mouse hat back, Mama would just buy him a new one - but, frowning, she stopped herself. For some reason, she just couldn’t get those words out. So, instead, she shook her head and... “Okay, look, Turdle, if you really have to have it, I guess it'll be okay for you to keep the stupid hat. But nothing else after this, alright? We’re running out of room in the cart with all your junk. So, gimmie. I’ll put it in with our stuff. "Now, quit sulking and get your stupid little butt down from there so we can cash these cans and bottles in and get some breakfast. And then get back out on the highway. It’s getting late and we’ve got a ways to go to catch up." Tater scuffed over to the dumpster and, on tippy-toes, reached up and gently tugged until the crusty black felt beanie with its one cracked ear loosened from the steely grip of the still-twitching little blue fingers on the motionless little blue hand sticking out between the dumpster’s cruddy green lip and its equally cruddy brown lid. Returning to their cart, she carefully folded the hat and stuffed it in the backpack Turdle had found at the base of a Stop sign several Exits back, to keep company with the page from the newspaper he’d, also, scrounged up a few days ago. The page with the “Calvin and Hobbes” and “Garfield” comic strips he’d wanted her to read to him on the one side and, on the other, the small, almost unnoticeable paragraph about an unidentified woman discovered ten days previous in Okeechobee, in a dumpster behind that “Stop ‘n’ Snooze” over on North Parrott Avenue. And, also, eight days previous, in a garbage bag in a Shell gas station bathroom on Highway 441. And, also, during the past week, in several plastic “Stop ‘n’ Shop” bags and a cardboard shoe box, at various points along the Turnpike. On the road to Disney World, the paragraph had said. Dragging an orange crate over to the shopping cart, Tater tilted it on its end and, folding her arms around herself, sat and scrunched closed her eyes real tight and tried with everything she had to tune out the voices inside that were, now, not a mutter, but a thick and sticky and black and teetering wall of shrieking that seemed about to cressendo and avalanche and bury the world... ...and waited for Turdle to, finally, get his stupid little butt down from there. |
|
| The Burial Lorna lorna_k@mac.com |
#9 of 17 |
| 1307 | |
| Richard places the wooden planchette in the centre of
the Ouija board, his hand retracting as if it had suddenly become hot. “Put your finger on it, then.” Richard obeys, eventually. “What now?” My husband and his sheltered childhood, Amanda thinks. “We call out for her. Why don’t you try first?” A single crease appears between his widening eyes. “I’m not doing it! You talk to her – she’s your great aunt.” “All right,” she snaps. Taking a deep breath, she recalls the horror movies of her youth and raises her eyes towards the ceiling. “Bessie? Are you there?” She waits. There is no movement under their hands, no invisible force straining to communicate with them. “Bessie? It’s Amanda. I’d really like to talk to you.” Nothing. She tries again several times, with long silences in between. “This is stupid.” Almost as soon as the words fall from her lips, the wooden block begins to move. * * * * Great Aunt Bessie hadn’t been in the ground a week when the lawyer called with an invitation to the reading of her will. “I’m glad I’ve managed to contact you,” he told Amanda, as she began fantasising about the size of the estate she would inherit. She had always secretly thought she was meant to be rich, but somehow wealth had remained just out of her grasp. One of the children screamed in the corner of the kitchen. Amanda winced, cupping the telephone mouthpiece with her hand. “Can you get them out of here?” She shouted at the nanny, who stared back blankly before interpreting her anger and ushering all three of them into the playroom. Must remember to get onto the agency about a discount, she thought. This girl can’t speak a word of English. “Sorry about that,” she melted her voice into the mouthpiece. “When is it again?” On hearing the news, Richard was as blunt with his wife as she wished she’d been with the lawyer. “Did she have any money?” “I doubt it. She was a bit of a freak, really. Gave me the creeps.” “Amanda! You can’t say that – the poor woman’s dead!” “Well, she was!” She huffed, indignantly. “Remember that awful painting she did for me?” Richard shook his head. “You know the one – the old man hunched up against the wall, playing the guitar.” “Oh yes! It wasn’t very attractive, was it? Maybe we should put it back on the wall as a sort of memorial to her.” Amanda walked over to the fridge and plucked a bottle of champagne from the door. “No, no.” She prized her finger under the gold foil and pulled, exposing a caged and bulbous cork. “Anyway, you can’t. I got twenty quid for it on Ebay.” She grinned at him proudly. “Champagne?” She arrived at the lawyer’s office with ten minutes to spare - the children having been despatched to playschool - clutching Richard’s arm and wearing one of her most expensive furs. Richard gave her a stern look. “However little it is, promise me you won’t laugh.” She rolled her eyes at him, but he continued. “Besides, we could do with the money. You’re not exactly cheap to maintain.” “I don’t like what you’re insinuating, Richard. It’s not my fault if you can’t provide for me properly.” With that, she led him into the room, which was empty apart from the lawyer. “Is this it?” she asked him. “Am I the only person you’re expecting?” “Yes. Shall we start?” She slipped off her gloves and began to examine the flaws in yesterday’s manicure, as the lawyer read Bessie’s last wishes. “…I hereby revoke all former Wills and testimony dispositions made by me and declare this to be my last Will…” Come on, Amanda thought, get on with it. “I leave my freehold residential property, all my antique furniture and my art collection to the Cats Protection League. I leave £300,000 to the Donkey Sanctuary and £500,000 to St. Michael’s Church for the repair of their roof. And to my great niece, Amanda, I leave the contents of my safe, namely bond certificates to the value of five million pounds…” Five million. Feeling the warmth of Richard’s arm around her shoulder she turned and offered one of the only genuine smiles of their marriage. Her mind began to create imagery of her wealth – the children at boarding school, designer clothes, cruises, a bigger house, a new car, perhaps even a new husband– the possibilities were endless. For a moment she almost forgot all decorum, only just managing to restrain herself from leaping up and kissing the lawyer. “When can I claim it?” she said instead. “As soon as you want. I have the combination here, but you’ll need the map, of course.” He paused, clearing his throat, and handed her a slip of paper with a set of numbers written neatly across it in ink. “And a shovel.” Amanda stared at the numbers in her hand, confused. “What map?” The lawyer returned to his desk and sat down. “I’m sorry, my client didn’t tell me much about it.” He paused, crossing his arms. “She said there was only one copy, and you’ve already got it. Something to do with a guitarist?” Her stomach flipped as she realised. “Yes, of course,” she uttered, calmly. “Thank you.” * * * * The lawyer sat alone in his office, a slight smile on his face. There was a knock on his door and his secretary slunk in, the slit at the side of her skirt revealing a long angle of thigh. She teetered over to him, perching her buttock on the corner of his desk. “How did she take it?” “Infuriatingly well, I’m sorry to say. Like a true pro.” “I still don’t get it. How did the aunt know she didn’t have the painting anymore?” Jeez, he thought to himself. If it weren’t for your blonde hair and great ass, I would have fired you months ago. “Luck, really. The person who bought it on Ebay loved it so much they tracked her down for a commission.” “But won’t she just try to get the painting back?” “She may well do, but she’ll never find the map.” He stood up to face her, his fingers tracing the line of the buttons on her shirt. “My client hated that woman. She made the whole thing up.” * * * * The planchette jerks suddenly as if shoved by an unseen hand. “Was that you?” Amanda whispers. “No! I thought it was you.” Their fingers are pulled across the board slowly and the block comes to rest on top of the letter H. “Aunt Bessie? Are you there?” She calls out to the room. “Are you sure you’re not moving it, Richard?” He opens his mouth to answer but the block moving to the left, over the letter G, then F, then E. It stops above the letter A. “Bessie? If that’s you, can you please tell me where the safe is buried?” The wood hesitates before moving pendulously: H-A-H-A-H-A-H-A-H-A-H-A-H-A. |
|
| The Burial newkevin@pacbell.net |
#10 of 17 |
| 1744 | |
| The front door thundered in its doorjamb as Byron
slammed against it and barked, excited that Julie was home. Julie turned the key, pushing the door open against the weight of her overly delighted dog. “Ok big guy, I can’t come in if I can’t open the door”. Julie stood in the doorway and managed a laugh as Bryon was throwing usual his one-dog party to celebrate her arrival. She closed the door and threw her purse on the credenza. Bryon jumped up and planted his paws on Julie’s chest, pushing her backwards and crushing the white carnation that was pinned to her blouse. “C’mon, get down” she laughed, trying to push the big, hairy dog off her. He complied, and proceeded to run circles around her, jumping and barking, as she made her way into the kitchen. He herded her in the direction of his cookie jar and promptly sat down, waiting patiently while Julie took out his favorite scrumptious chicken biscuit and offered it into his eager maw. He happily accepted, downing it with one bite and then turning his attention to the kitchen floor, lest any precious crumbs might have gotten away. Julie looked down and smiled at Bryon, giving him a couple of quick pats. “Good boy, I won’t have to mop that spot”. Julie left Bryon to his kitchen detail and made her way to the living room. She flopped down on the couch, letting the cushions absorb the full weight of her day. She took a deep breath, feeling ever so grateful that she was finally home. She slipped off her heels, which only added to her gratitude. Julie closed her eyes, letting the events of the morning run through her mind. The funeral was lovely, with so many of her mom’s friends giving speeches on the profound influence that she had on their lives. They told stories about her love of life and adventure, and of her fondness for practical jokes. They talked of how she handled herself throughout her husband’s long struggle with cancer and her strength in dealing with her own illness. They spoke of her love for Julie. Julie could only sit motionless in the pew, white knuckling her way through all of the speeches, afraid that if she shed a single tear, her not so rock-solid front would shatter in front of everyone, exposing the shredded emotions of a woman that felt very alone in the world. She was the only child; she felt that it was her duty to get though this with grace and dignity. Julie let her body sink further into the cushions. The hard part is over, she told herself. Mom is out of pain and she and dad are back together. Mercifully, the house was finally quiet. All the family and friends are heading back home. Only now, alone in her own house, did she feel like she could really try to let go and grieve for the loss of her mother. It would feel good to cry, especially after holding onto her grief for so long. A bump from a cold, wet nose and chicken biscuit scented dog breath brought her out of her trance. She opened her eyes to find Bryon, his big laughing face inches from her own. She reached out and scratched his neck, Bryon leaning into the attention. “Hey buddy, I guess mommy’s not having such a good day.” Bryon leaned forward and planted a small kiss on the tip of her nose, no small feat for a Saint Bernard. Julie giggled, “I love you too. I just need some time alone. Go find something to do.” Bryon stood still for a few moments, and then lumbered off, leaving Julie to dwell in her emotional misery. After a few moments, Julie could hear Bryon trotting back, the sound of metal scraping the floor as he moved. She knew what this meant; Bryon was coming back with his leash, the clasp dragging along beside him. Bryon sat down in front of Julie, gently dropping the leash on the floor. Julie sighed, “Can’t you just use the yard?” Bryon just sat; tail wagging, panting and staring at Julie. No, obviously it is time for a walk. He added a few soft “woofs” to re-enforce his point. Julie sighed, realizing that Bryon’s will was far greater than her own was. “Fine, we’ll go for a walk.” Julie got off the couch and went into the bedroom. Byron picked up his leash and followed close behind. She opened her closet and slipped on a pair of sneakers; the dirty white shoes clashing with her jet-black hose. Julie laughed at her choice of shoes and gave Bryon quick pat on his head. “Nothing but the best in fashion for you, my friend. Promise you won’t call Mr. Blackwell?” Bryon just stared up at Julie, sitting patiently, his leash still in his mouth and his tail thumping the floor with barely constrained excitement. Julie retrieved her keys from her purse and headed for the front door. Bryon was already waiting by the door; dancing his usual “Yeah, I’m going for a walk!” happy dance. Julie had to admit it to herself; this was a good idea. It felt good to get outside. The cool breeze and late afternoon sun helped ease the furious chatter that was going on inside her head. Nothing like the simple act of walking a dog to help bring some much needed clarity. As they walked, Bryon bounced and barked, announcing his joy to the rest of the neighborhood. He set about his doggy business; hitting all his usual trees, bushes and light posts, and stopping along the way to sniff anything that he found to be remotely interesting. As they made their way around the block, Bryon visited with the other neighborhood dogs, wagging and sniffing through various gates and fences. He stopped to bark at a cat sitting on top of a wall, rolled in a sunny spot in a neighbor’s yard and ate a few mouthfuls of grass. Occasionally, he would interrupt his own reverie, sit, and wait for Julie. If he did something that made her laugh, he would immediately go for an encore. Bryon was really ratcheting up his clowning, which was fine with Julie. After their leisurely stroll around the block, the two returned to the house. Julie unclipped Bryon’s leash and he trotted off to his water bowl. Julie hung Bryon’s leash back up and returned to the couch. Julie ran through her mental to-do list of all the tasks that now lay before her. She was her mother’s executor. Now she had to deal with attorneys, accountants, taxes, and the estate sale. She saw what her mom went through after dad passed away. The thought of having to go through the same ordeal made her stomach clench. “WOOF!” Julie looked at Bryon, “Now what?” feeling more than a little exasperated. It felt like it had been only been a few minutes and she was quite content to stay where she was. Bryon however, had other plans. He climbed up onto her lap, licking her face several times, then jumped down and danced around in circles and barked. She groaned and got up, following him to the credenza. Bryon jumped up and nosed her purse. “A car ride? Oh come on buddy, we just got back from a walk. Today is not a good day.” Bryon spun and jumped, ran to the front door and barked. “Sorry Bryon, not today”. Julie made her way back to the couch, but Bryon had beaten her to it. A floppy stuffed dog toy was hanging from his mouth. He dropped it onto her lap as she sat down. She half-heartily threw the toy, Bryon loping in pursuit and quickly returning. After a few rounds, Julie took the toy from her lap and dropped it on the floor. “That’s enough Bryon, maybe later.” Bryon sat down and stared at Julie. After a few moments, he finally got up and wandered outside. Julie watched Bryon as he went through his dog door. She was trying hard not to be angry with him for being such a pest. She started to feel a twinge of guilt. With the amount of time that she has been gone lately, Byron has been spending quite a lot of time alone. He just wants some attention. Julie closed her eyes, hoping that if she could not cry, maybe sleep would ease her mind. A cold wetness in her lap and the smell of fresh dirt snapped Julie to attention. “No Bryon! Gross!” Bryon had dropped one of his “buried treasures”, a partially chewed rawhide bone, onto her lap. Dirt and slobber covered the front of her dry-clean-only skirt. Bryon’s face was covered in dirt and his paws left a muddy trail to the couch. Bryon sat down and nosed his treasure further up Julie’s lap. Swearing at Bryon under her breath, Julie got up, and using only thumb and forefinger, picked up the rather nasty treasure and threw it in the trash. She cleaned up the floor as best as she could and went back into the bedroom for a change of clothes. Julie returned to the couch in sweat pants and a t-shirt, with Bryon close behind, bouncing and woofing. “BYRON THAT IS ENOUGH!”, Julie snapped. Bryon immediately stopped and fell silent, once again sitting down in front of the couch. Julie looked into Bryon’s eyes, his expression having changed from happy to solemn. His “smile” was gone from his face. She reached out and scratched under his ear. His lip drew back slightly and his back leg thumped lightly on the floor. She leaned over, putting her face to his. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. Today is just not a good day, OK?” Julie leaned back on the couch, Bryon still sitting quietly in front of her. After a moment, he stood up and stepped up onto the couch. He circled several times and splayed his body across Julie’s lap. He sighed and relaxed, his body settling into hers. Julie smiled, sighed and leaned over, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and buried her face into his coat. Bryon lay quietly in Julie’s lap as she cried the weight of the world into her best friend’s fur. “How can help you feel better my friend? I’m worried because I know you are troubled I don’t know why Tell me how I can help Do you want to go for a walk? You can use my favorite tree I will even let you chase the cat That always makes me feel better Do you want to go for a car ride? You can hang your head out the window And say hello to everyone you see That always makes me feel better Can I show you my favorite patch of grass? You can eat as much as you want I will leave you alone until you are done That always makes me feel better Would you like something from the yard? I can dig it out of the hole and bring it back into the house That always makes me feel better Would you like to take a nap by the window? You can lie down in my favorite spot and let the sun warm you That always makes me feel better Would you like to play with my toys? You can even have the new one and rip out the stuff in the middle That always makes me feel better Would you like a cookie? A belly rub? Bark at the mailman? Tree a squirrel? Eat a bug? No? Ah, I know what you need I will just stay with you and be your friend That always makes me feel better” And together, the two friends slept peacefully; as a family. |
|
| The Burial Sideline17 lazdom@ono.com |
#11 of 17 |
| 1198 | |
| ‘Hon- It’s time to say goodbye to
Freddy!’ Susan’s voice rang wearily down the hall. ‘You go ahead,’ Ben called back, ‘I’m still working.’ Susan thought of a few choice words in response, but glancing down she instead planted a kiss on the top of her son’s head and whispered, ‘Ok sweetie. Open the box.’ Brandon’s swollen red eyes looked up at his mom, ‘I don’t wanna put him in the toilet- that’s where poopies go.’ ‘We already talked about this, remember? Just like Nemo? All toilets lead to the sea, and that’s where Freddy wants to go.’ Unconvinced but ceding, his shaky fingers opened the box and held it over the toilet. Susan tried for a deep preacher-like voice, ‘We bid goodbye to Freddy. The best goldfish there ever was.’ She reached down and helped her son turn his wrist till the fish dropped into the bowl. Brandon immediately dissolved into tears clinging round his mother’s waist. She flushed the toilet and quietly led him to his room. Brandon sat on his bed, his arms knotted before him in distress. She pulled his reluctant body to her side, kissing his forehead, ‘I know it’s sad. We’re all going to miss him.’ Relaxing but still disturbed he muttered, ‘He was my best friend.’ ‘I know honey, I know,’ she cooed, playing with the stray locks at the nape of his neck, ‘But I have an idea. Why don’t draw a nice big picture of Freddy and we’ll put it on the fridge to remember him by?’ Brandon sniffled and looked up slowly, ‘All right,’ he slid off the bed and went rummaging for his crayons. He turned, his eyes brightening, ‘I’m going to draw him in the ocean fighting a shark!’ ‘Great idea,’ she said as she left him to his project. Down the hall she found her husband staring at the computer screen. ‘You know, it would have been nice if you’d joined us.’ Ben stiffened, recognizing the tone, ‘I’ve got work to do,’ his eyes not shifting from the screen. ‘It only took a minute. And it was important for Brandon.’ ‘Only because you made it important,’ he said flatly, resisting the interruption, ’I would have just thrown the fish out.’ ‘Oh come on,’ Susan’s voice tensing, ‘losing a pet is a big deal for a kid, especially at Brandon’s age.’ Ben turned, ‘For you, maybe, but not for me. It was just a fish. If you hadn’t made it into a drama we could have just bought him another one and he would have been fine. Kids learn something is major when their parents tell them it is.’ ‘You can’t believe that—didn’t you hear him crying?’ Susan threw her arms up in frustration. ‘Yeah, for about five minutes and now he’s doing something else,’ he rebuffed and turned back to the screen, ‘Can we talk about this later? I’ve really got stuff to do.’ Susan’s anger was rising steadily now, ‘That’s just it, you know. Everything matters if and when you want it to. Brandon and I are important only when it’s convenient for you.’ ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I was the one who spent the whole afternoon with him at the pet store choosing the damn thing in the first place. Are you trying to say I don’t pay enough attention to our son?’ ‘I’m saying that you’d rather be typing away at the computer than dealing with all this.’ ‘Oh, like I actually want to be doing this crap,’ he stared incredulously at his wife. ‘You think that after busting my butt all week I’m just dying to take this shit home and work the only days I have off?’ ‘It could have waited till we had finished with Freddy.’ ‘Because that’s what you think. I’d like to live in your world, where I could do what I wanted when I wanted. Well I’m sorry. I don’t.’ ‘So if your son is heartbroken it just doesn’t matter to you then.’ ‘That’s enough,’ Ben growled, ‘I have to get this done and just because you feel like bashing me you start in on all this and..’ ‘I’m not bashing you, I’m trying to talk about something that means a lot to me…to us.’ ‘Not bashing me? You come in here telling me I’m a bad father and I don’t care at all about my son and you say that’s not bashing?’ ‘I didn’t call you a bad father. I just think you’ve got your priorities a bit off.’ ‘Because my priorities aren’t your priorities?’ ‘No,’ her voice softened, ’because I think you need to pay more attention to Brandon…and to me.’ Ben scoffed, ‘So that’s what this is all about, isn’t it? About you?’ ‘Mommy?’ Susan turned to see Brandon’s tussled head peeking round the door, ‘Not now, Brandon. Go play in your room.’ ‘But Mommy,’ he whined. ‘Brandon, Mommy will come in a minute. Now go.’ Brandon shuffled slowly away. ‘Listen,’ Ben said sternly, ‘I don’t have time to have one of your endless arguments, and don’t like fighting in front of Brandon.’ ‘Do you think I do? But if this is the only time we have to talk, what do you want me to do? It’s not like I can make him disappear so we can get ugly.’ ‘I’m not getting ugly, and I think we know why you are.’ ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ ‘Come on. Everything is fine until one week when you get hormones rushing through you and then I get punished with these monologues of yours about what a shitty husband I am.’ ‘I can’t believe you’re going to blame this on my period! You know what? The truth is that three weeks out of the month I put up will all kinds of crap that I shouldn’t, and then when I get my period I smarten up enough to say something about it.’ ‘Mommy!’ Brandon’s pleading voice. ‘What?’ ‘Come!’ Susan shot a furious glance at her husband as she headed out of the room. Ben silently turned back to the screen to resume his work. She found her son on the bed with a crayon drawing in his hands, ‘See? Look. Here’s where Freddy goes down the tubes and gets to the ocean. And see? He’s really not dead. And here he’s swimming around and there are some of the other fish and look-here is where he’s fighting a shark. And all that red stuff is the shark’s blood and he kills him.’ ‘That’s great honey,’ a tear slipping down her face. ‘Mommy? Why are you and Daddy shouting at each other?’ Susan quickly wiped her face, ’We’re just upset sweetie.’ ‘About Freddy?’ Susan paused, then smiled, ‘Yes, about Freddy.’ ‘Is that why you were crying?’ ‘Yeah,’ she said, glancing back towards her husband’s office, ‘It’s sad when something dies.’ Brandon looked worriedly at his picture, ‘But not really dead, right? Not dead-dead.’ Susan smiled and hugged her son, ‘No, not dead-dead. Just buried. But still swimming, waiting to find the next shark.’ |
|
| The Burial Kathy Lynn Blaylock humanneeds2003@yahoo.com |
#12 of 17 |
| 1442 | |
| “Time seems to move too slowly when you
desperately want something to happen Jill. But I promise you, your day will
come.” “I know my day will come Alice, but it just isn’t happening soon enough. I swear I am going to be old and used up long before my day ever gets here!” Jill screamed, clutching her hair as if she would pull it out by the roots. “Come on Jill, you are being overly dramatic but I must admit, you do put on a spectacular performance. Maybe you should have been the one wanting to act?” “Go to hell Alice!” Jill said as she turned to leave the room. Turning back she glared at her sister once more, and replied. By the way Alice, wipe that stupid smirk off your face, or I will do it for you!” The young girl said slamming the door behind her. Alice and Jill Monroe are the only children of William and Denise Monroe, and the sole beneficiaries to the Monroe fortune, should anything happen to their Mother. The estate had been left to Denise when William was killed in a hit and run accident, after leaving his downtown office late one evening. William Monroe had been a high priced defense attorney on the upper eastside of Manhattan, where he made a rather large fortune defending some of the cities top crime bosses. Nearly a year later the crime remains unsolved, and the rumors continue being whispered. Some people say the attorney had been killed by an unsatisfied client, or a hit man hired by an unsatisfied client’s family. Others believe the prosecutor himself knocked off the famous attorney, because he was tired of Monroe bribing Judges to free crime bosses. However, there is only one who knows the truth. “Jill please come back to Mother’s room with me. I think it is time to have her committed. The depression has gotten much worse, and she is hallucinating now. A few minutes ago she was rambling some nonsense that Father was talking to her, and he wanted her to come keep him warm. Jill, Mother is going insane with grief, we have to do something.” “Now who is being over dramatic! Mother will be fine Alice, let her get some rest. She just wants attention, and as long as you sit in there watching her, she will continue to put on a show! I have a date, so I am going out. You do whatever you want. Go back up to Mother’s one woman’s show, or read a book. Why do you spend so much time in that depressing room anyway? Let me guess, you are waiting for her to die? Killing her, smothering her with kindness? Licking her wounds for her would be my best guess though, have fun. Bye now.” The petite young blonde said as she danced out the door. Alice was twenty-four years old, but in the last year she felt she aged at least twice that. Dealing with her younger sister, their Father’s murder, and their Mother’s declining health was all very taxing on her nerves. But this time Jill’s lack of compassion had her boiling. Before she realized it, she was running down the walk. Jill’s long hair danced with the breeze, and it looked so inviting. In an instant he silky curls were wrapped so softly around her fingers. “You are a cold hearted little bitch Jill!” Alice screamed pulling the younger girl from the car. “Damn Alice let go of my hair, you’re hurting me! I know I am a bitch, but I just can’t stay cooped up in there another minute. I have to live life, you should try it. It’s fun! Now please let me go.” She cried. “Damn you to hell Jill! Just damn you to hell!” Alice replied her shame clearly visible on her pale face. She could not believe she allowed Jill to reduce her to a physical brawl, silently she thanked God the neighbors weren’t home to see her crude behavior. She had not acted so badly since childhood, at least not where anyone could see her ill temper. Hiding her true self from others was proving to be a rather large task these days. And she hated Jill for forcing her to show herself in such a way. ‘Still showing concern for Mother might prove useful at a later time.’ She thought releasing her hold on Jill’s hair, and heading back toward the house. An hour later footsteps fell like silent whispers in the upstairs hallway. They were the whispers belonging to a perpetrator with no conscience, or feelings of sorrow, or remorse. In fact they were the very footsteps of greed. “Denise come follow me, I’ll take you William. Shush, no one must not hear us. Come now William is cold. He needs you.” The angel whispered taking the ill woman’s hand, and leading her from the shelter of her room. She wasn’t a real angel, but she looked like one to Mother, and that was the whole idea behind the costume. She was as excited as a child on Christmas eve waiting for Santa to land on the roof. Christmas was coming early to the Monroe estate, and she was more than ready to collect it all. For weeks she had been mixing the Belladonna in Denise’s tea, which explains the hallucinations. But today while her sister was out running errands, she crushed the sweet black berries the whipped them in the muffin mix. “That’s right, eat the muffins Mother. I know how much you love them, you never could turn down a blueberry muffin. Yes I know they have been your favorite since childhood. But tonight the sweet black berries inside are especially poisonous, and I made them just for you. I guess I can share the family fortune for a while with my sister, but soon she will have an accident as well.” The girl whispered as she led her drug induced mother up the attic stairs, and out to the edge of the widow’s-walk. “That’s nice dear.” The woman replied stumbling, and fell to her knees clutching the weak railing for support. “Come on Mother stand up, it’s time to take a leap of faith. Daddy is waiting down there. You see him don’t you?” “William wait! I’m coming William, please don’t leave me again!” “Here let me help you Mom.” She said trying to pull the older woman to her feet. “Wait there is something I have to do. I forget what it is, but I can’t go until I do it. Maybe you can help me remember what it is angel?” “You have called me a lot of things Mother, but I doubt angel has been one of them. Have another muffin, I brought you some tea as well.” Denise heard the angelic creature say, as she watched her take a muffin and a flask filled with hot tea from the folds of her white robe. The girl had always dreamed of becoming an actress. In her high school drama class she had been fairly good. However, her parents had forbidden her from pursuing her dream. To them and their snobbish friends acting was simply a way to degrade one’s own integrity. “Oh Mother this is what I call poetic justice, a private performance and you get the lead role in the Monroe production of Romeo and Juliet, in reverse of course. Now stand up!” She ordered violently pulling Denise to her feet, and pushing her against the railing. Silently she watched her Mother fall as the railing gave way. She waited to hear the screams she was sure would come. But there were none, nothing, only silence. She could not resist stepping closer to the edge, she needed to see the woman dead. Far too long she had lived under their rules. Waited for every crumb they would hand out, not any more. “Killing Father was so much easier, and the action was much more exciting. But my waiting is finally over Mother!” She said peering down from the widow’s-walk. “No Alice, my waiting is finally over!” Jill said shoving her sister over the edge. Quickly Alice grabbed the railing. “Help me Jill! For gods sake help me!” She screamed clinging to the railing that was rapidly giving way. “You want me to help you? Aren’t you the one that called me selfish and greedy? Not a chance!” She replied kicking the railing free, and listened to Alice scream into silence. “You took the cake Alice. But the funny thing about all this is after the burial, I am going to be the one with the whole damn pie. Bye now.” Jill said smiling as she turned from the scene below. |
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| The Burial Darryl Brooks DarrylBrooks@comcast.net |
#13 of 17 |
| 1449 | |
| The first time she entered this room seven years ago
came flooding back. She had just turned sixteen. She had just met her uncle for
the first time. She had just buried her mother and father. “Welcome to your new home, child,” Uncle Paul said, “Put your bags down and come have a seat. If you are going to be living in my house, you need to understand the rules.” No one had called her ‘child’ in a long time, and she had no intention of following any rules. “Just tell me where my room is. I’m going out.” She was shocked by the speed with which he crossed the room, and even more so when the back of his hand struck her face. “You will do as your told, young lady. Despite the fact that you are my namesake, I never intended being a parent at this stage of my life. However, your parents named me as legal guardian and I intend to honor their wishes. As you will honor mine. Now sit. You may go to your room when you are dismissed.” She walked toward the old Queen Anne sofa and sat, her mind in a haze. Paula’s uncle towered over her, the hand an unspoken threat. “The first rule of course, is that you will always obey me without question. You will serve yourself breakfast before school, and return home promptly afterwards and attend to your studies…” His voice was reduced to a buzz in Paula’s brain has the rules droned on. The only thought in her mind was how did she get into this mess and how was she going to get out of it. Paula hadn’t got along great with her parents, but it was normal stuff about homework and boys. They had never hit her. She flashed back to the day her parents had dropped her off at her girlfriend’s house before a weekend trip to visit Uncle Paul. She was only eight and didn’t understand why they were leaving her behind. “It’s just going to be a lot of boring meetings, honey,” her mother had said, “We’re making out a will and we need to name a guardian for you in case something happens to us.” “But what’s going to happen and what’s a will?” “Nothing is going to happen. This is just a legal precaution. A will is a paper that tells people what to do just in case something awful happens. Uncle Paul is the only relative we have young enough to care for you in case we can’t be around.” “But…” “No, buts, Paula,” her father had interrupted. “We don’t like leaving you behind either, or naming my brother as guardian, but the lawyer says we got to name somebody and Paul’s it. This is just a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo. It doesn’t mean anything. We’ll be back Sunday to pick you up. Have fun. We love you.” And with that, they had dropped her off and made the arrangements that had left her in this hellhole. The days and weeks passed in a blur, the only constant was her misery and isolation. She wasn’t allowed out with her friends, and she was afraid to have them visit her. One day, her uncle picked her up after school. “We’re going to pay a visit to my lawyer. Your parents made me your guardian, but we need to tidy up some loose ends. Your parents left you quite a sum in trust and you need a will. I will become your heir and you will be mine.” As she entered the law offices of Coben, Koontz, & King, her mind wrestled with this new information. She didn’t want him to be her heir, but she had no one else, and besides, she was afraid of arguing with him. During the discussion with her uncle’s creepy lawyer, Mr. King, she discovered something about her parent’s death that had been kept from her before. She knew they died in a traffic accident on the coastal highway, but until now, she didn’t know that an unknown driver had run them off the road. It remained an unsolved hit and run. After that, she noticed a change in her uncle’s treatment toward her. He acted kinder, but behind the act was a predatory malevolence. He would sometimes cook her meals, and take her on long drives along the coast. At sunset, he would frequently take her on walks along the cliffs overlooking the Pacific. It was on one of these walks that she learned the truth about her uncle. As he turned to point out a cypress tree clinging to the cliff’s face, he bumped into her forcing her toward the abyss. Only her teenage agility saved her as she twisted and clung to the cliff’s edge. Her uncle reached and pulled her up, apologizing, but he had a look that was more regret than distress. When they got back to the house, Paul appeared very concerned; she just wasn’t sure who the concern was for. “Why don’t you go up to your room and lie down? You must be drained and weary.” “Yes, I’ll do that,” she said. Anything to get away from him and think. She went to her room and locked the door. She thought she had discovered his true nature and intent, and suspected the truth about her parent’s ‘accident’. Now her feelings for her uncle turned from hatred to fear and loathing. She picked up her bedside phone and called 911. “Please send someone out, my uncle tried to kill me. I think he killed my parents.” “Slow down, miss. Who tried to kill you? Tell me what happened.” It took her a while to convince the operator that she was serious, that this wasn’t a teenage prank. He finally promised to send someone out. Exhausted and spent, she lay back on her bed and soon drifted into a restless sleep. A loud knocking from downstairs woke her up. Startled, she jumped up and looked out the window. A police cruiser sat in the drive in front of the house. She hurried into the bathroom, splashed some cold water on her face, and brushed her hair. By the time she got to the stairs, her uncle and the police officer were laughing, like two old friends sharing a joke. They both turned as she got downstairs, her uncle still smiling, but his eyes had turned cold. “Paula, dear, there you are. I’d like you to meet Deputy Andy Brown. He’s been patrolling this section of the county for year | |