The exercise:
Write about: the memorial.
The days seem to be speeding past lately. So much I want to do, so little of it actually getting done...
Mine:
Here lies my self-confidence,
Taken from me much too soon;
Felled by vile, spiteful critics
Who just sing their same old tune.
It is a sad admission
That most of them lived within;
I found it too difficult
To flee knives under my skin.
Perhaps a resurrection
Will one fine day be achieved;
And though I am filled with doubt,
I'm used to being deceived.
3 comments:
That's quite a bittersweet poem really; I rather like it. I think my favourite line is that about knives under the skin .
And though I agree the days are getting magically shorter somehow, mine still seemed filled with stuff. Just stuff I don't especially want to do. (For example, this the second morning in a row that we've had a fire alarm before 8am...)
The memorial
The sky was pale grey but drizzling with enthusiasm, and the large, sparkly drops splattered down on the folks gathered around the grave. They soaked through coats with ease, and sank into expensive dresses and shirts, making colours run and fade. This was a funeral for more than just a man, it was a funeral for the respect of his friends and their patience for his continued destruction of their property. Me? I was just there to report back to Mad Frankie that Colin Tamagotchi was actually dead.
"Dearly beloved," began the priest, a man I'd seen just two days ago twisting the head off a sheep to make a point during his sermon. I had no idea what he loved, but I was pretty sure I wanted none of it. The dank mourners shuffled their feet in their patent leather Oxford Brogues and pretended to listen while he listed platitudes about a vile excuse for a human being, and edged around grave, checking the coffin for signs that the lid might be opening. When he finished, at last, he picked up a handful of mud and tossed it on the coffin.
"One moment!" A man wearing a balaclava to hide his identity (apparently unaware that the family crest discretely monogrammed at the neck gave him away) waved a hand. "We wish to honour our comrade with a suitable memorial."
"Go ahead," said the priest, looking confused. The hand waved again, and the air filled with the beeping alarm of an HGV backing up to the grave and then the hydraulic gasp of a flat-bed being lifted and dumping a hundred-weight of concrete into the grave and over the ground around. It splattered and splashed, but no-one said a word.
"What?" asked the priest, a little dazed.
"When it sets the sculptor will carve an angel," said the man. "We think the deceased would appreciate it."
I turned away; if Tamagotchi had been faking his own death I was sure that it had all just gone horribly wrong for him.
A cardboard box of ashes under the bed
Not how I wanted to remember Grandma
Just bury her already!
Greg - I think the rule is that if the first two are false alarms, you're allowed to ignore the third.
Cute new profile pic, by the way :)
Great scene. That's definitely a fine way to make sure that whoever is inside the coffin remains there :P
Morganna - under the bed doesn't seem like a terribly fitting final resting place for anyone, does it?
Post a Comment