Fun Funeral
I recently asked on my website for opening sentences for me to use in short stories as a small creative writing challenge. This story’s opening sentence comes from Gnorb.
Until I attended my own, I never quite understood why the word “funeral” started with “fun”. People don’t even wear all black to these things anymore. A rainbow of colors meets me as I walk among the throng of three hundred or so. My wife is in her finest, slinky red dress, and it hugs her curves as she leans close to my best friend. It’s not friendly support she’s craving, and the sun makes her golden strands shine. She still blinds me.
I am forgotten, as I lie stiff and cold in a cheaply-made box. They’re laughing, and it’s not even about me, not even at me. Carol has a toddler that’s said something funny, which obviously means he’s a genius in the making. Apparently my teenage son and his friend think it’s funny to barely escape the law with a kilo. Even the minister has funny stories, prude that he is. They’re having fun, and their eyes shine brilliantly–bright golden browns, topaz greens and cornflower-periwinkle blues. Happy. Not a single tear.
This is my punishment, and I am told it is just. How worrying it is to see no one crying in your wake. It is painful to hear bad words, but it is worse to hear no words at all. My name is not uttered outside of the poorly-written eulogy, and I come to understand that this is a party that only my bloodless body has been invited to.
They hold a lunch afterward at our house, and it is not anything like the post-funeral lunches I attended in life. There is dancing. But it’s quiet, secretly devious. They don’t want the media to know of their joy, perhaps. Perhaps the media does not care.
For a long while, I sit on the black leather couch, where I am sitting now. People sit beside me and through me; it tingles a little when they do that. My wife gets drunk on champagne at my left, and my best friend kisses her while sitting on my lap, through my lap. It hurts, but I met her under similar circumstances, and I understand. It was to be expected.
The dead do feel anguish, actually, and I feel anguished now. I have gotten all that I deserve, and I will be walking among them as they have their fun, as my son runs his life into the ground because I paid him no mind. My best friend will likely marry my wife, the poor grieving widow. She may or may not get a pre-nup, and he may or may not get half of everything when their sham of a relationship falls through, too.
Time passes, and people come and go. Ashes and potato chips are on the floor. Someone has fallen asleep at my feet. I wish I’d been a better man.
Micky McGuinness
A very interesting and well written little story. Thoroughly enjoyable ; )