So, about a year ago I wrote my first narrative after a rather horrific dream. It became something weird. A love story if you will, or maybe a tragedy. Mind you this was my first serious attempt at writing something. This will presumably have 5 parts If I worked it out right. But heres the first part, I'll keep posting parts if this thread gets any recognition. Picture the numbers as separate chapters almost. The story transitions from the story to the narrators perspective on life in a non-linear fashion. I, the writer, am not the narrator aswell, that is for the reader to figure out. The story is meant to be heavy on interpretation by the reader. Feedback is good aswell. Every time someone critiques me (actual criticism) a cute little rabbit's life is saved. Who doesn't like fuzzy wittle bunny wabbits? ----------------------------------- [b]The Funeral[/b] [b]1[/b] [i]“Thank you for joining us for today’s pre-burial ceremonies of the late mother Holly Green (1977-2013) and her son James Green (1994-2013). We at H&L Funeral Home would like to express our condolences for your loses. Accommodations have been made so that the entire first floor of the premise is open for loved ones to pay their respects. Holly’s mourning will take place on the first door to the right, in the largest room of the house. James’ mourning will be located directly across the hall, or the first door to the left. The funeral director will be in Holly’s room for any issues or concerns, unless he is needed in James’. Please take the time to sign the check-in book.” [/i] [b]2[/b] Isn’t it ironic how many people you don’t speak to or care about will show up to respectfully send you to your grave? An individual may come across the thought, “who will go to my funeral?” and not be able to name a large number of people who would. Distant relatives, schoolteachers that you hated, third and fourth cousins, old acquaintances, past lovers, and a whole swarm of irrelevant people have some sort of moral embodiment that tells them to see you for one last time before the eternal distance of six feet becomes reality. Any one of these people could pass you on the street without noticing you, but as soon as you have secured a future of no return, you are a celebrity. They call out of work for you, buy your family flowers and a pitiful card of condolence. These people could possibly be very un-altruistic. They might not have a care in the world whether you died by suicide, homicide, or natural causes, however the laws of society dictate them to join in on the morbid examination of a family grieving over a lost one. Formal dress is almost a requirement, damnation to those who disrespect the all-seeing dead by not sporting a fancy collared shirt! There is no generalization to describe funeral-goers, except to say the quantity of them is baffling, and their quality is skeptical. There is also no empathy at a funeral, any attempts are corrupt and should be neglected. But that wouldn’t be nice, would it? Not one person can say they know how the husband of a murdered wife feels, not even another widower. Everyone perceives death differently, which is why it impacts everyone differently. The most surprising fact about death is that death is fact. The most surprising fact about death being a fact is that people are surprised by it. You can live you entire life conspiring to the theories, laws, and “facts” of life and never be disappointed. However, every single one of these ideas is just a consensus between a community of studious intellectuals spending entire life times to justify something they observed. They could all be proven wrong, and probably will be. The only thing that we can possibly know is that we will die someday. There are thousands of years of human civilizations that can support this. Take a shovel to a graveyard and discover this amazing phenomenon for yourself. [b]3[/b] The off-white Victorian glistened in the daylight like the corroded hull of a sunken ship. You can’t say it was an eyesore, because that would be unethical, but it was an eyesore. You admire a man for living for over a hundred years, but find disgust in a once beautiful estate that is long overdue for renovation. The house spanned three stories, each level carrying a skirt of grey shingles, stained from years of weather. It was as structurally sound as a heroin addict; one more hit could bring it crashing down, but for now it would stand. The black shudders were traditional, and helped the house retain some of its beauty. They watched over the solemn disciples of misfortune the way a hawk watches its prey, silent and fearful. The lawn, brown from dehydration, was littered with cars. In fact, the parking lot, driveway, and the closest road, were littered with cars. The old sign declaring “H&L Funeral Home” was invisible behind all the clutter. An onlooker might assume an official had died; some valiant celebrity faced an ultimate struggle to survive. Old homes, poorly built with a wood and concrete infrastructure capable of sending a modern contractor to an insane asylum, tend to carry distinct smells. This old home was no different, save for the two dead bodies located inside. An aroma of wood deteriorated from water damage was slight, but noticeable. It was almost able to overcome the stench of old relatives that you cannot seem to recall the names of. The familiarity of this smell comes from awkward confrontations at an event you most likely did not want to be at. Does this hold true for a funeral? Just because somebody died, is this smell now a pleasant reminder of family? Complete this with a constant reminder of the amount of air freshener used in order to dissipate the problematic stench that corpses tend to make, and your nose is almost overwhelmed. It most likely is overwhelming, but nothing is said, as to not offend anyone. The visuals of the inside were, in a sense, pleasing. The wallpaper in Holly’s room was a maroon color, dark enough to invite sadness, bright enough to allow light-heartedness. There were little to no imperfections, those noticeable enough were hidden behind portraits of biblical symbols. The room was lit in an off-bright manner. Sullen faces recently covered in tears were happy to see you in this kind of light. Chairs were lined up for the immediate family to sit on when they were giving handshakes of respect to the attendees of the funeral. There was a mural of Holly filled with pictures of her smiling, living like she should be. Her coffin was shrouded with hundreds of dollars worth of flowers, vibrantly shining their colored petals while the thorns stabbed at the happiness of her family. The florist must have been ecstatic with this huge order. James’ room was similar, to an extent. There were far less flowers and pictures present. The line of chairs was smaller than Holly’s. Off-white wallpaper covered the walls, complete with enough cracks and bubbles to force an acceptance of crudeness. This room was not usually used for funerals, and it was apparent that it had not aged like wine would. Over four hundred people arrived at the H&L Funeral Home from the hours of 3 PM to 6 PM. Of these four hundred people, two hundred stayed for longer than ten minutes. Of these two hundred, only fifty paid their respects to James before moving on to Holly. Throughout the day, there was only one single person to stay in James’ room for the entirety of the ceremony. In fact, she was the only person to stay in that room for longer than the time needed to say a prayer and scurry over to Holly’s room. She probably would have stayed the night if she could. ------------------------------------------ Copyright M.S. 2013 ----------------------------- [url=http://www.bungie.net/en/Forum/Post/85411423/0/0/1]Part 2[/url] ---------------------------- Posted part two because of the lack of responses. Looking over part 1, I can see how it might not seem to allude to much.