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My Eulogy
December 26, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Music, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Monologue, Performance, Rhetoric, Speech | by davidbdale | 10 comments
Dearly beloved, and others, we gather today with heavy hearts to mourn the passing of a cherished individual, me. The greatest loss, of course, is mine, but each of you are also now diminished, unless you hold collateral for what I owe you. Lying here mute with my jaws wired shut, I’m still the whole show, a loss you’ll not soon recover from, and it saddens me to take away the better part of you. The current fashion in funerals is a joyous celebration, but I prefer ritual groaning to sappy remembrances, so rend some garments. In order of magnitude, starting with me, we have each of us suffered a devastating loss, for I was father, husband, brother, son (most of those accidentally), cousin, grandson, nephew (no one asked if I wanted to be), a felon, an adulterer, an unnamed co-conspirator, the boss from hell, a karaoke singer, and the author of a will that should infuriate everyone it names. A complete list would require depositions. The deceased was infamous for the roles he played and for his ruthlessness: with creditors, with other men’s wives, with the mostly-female choir that will sing here tonight. I loved you all, not just your voices. But oh, what delicious backing those voices provided for mine. By way of closing let me say, in relationships with every man of consequence, an urgent intimacy needs to be petted and fed or it will jump the fence and flee to the woods. In my case, it was my dog, who I will truly miss. Dear friends, I was more to you than you knew; and you, to me, were parts that blended with mine. It won’t be much of a requiem without me singing, but do your best. You can blame your performance on grief.
Copyright © December 26, 2006
Block Party
December 21, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Neighbor, Threat | by davidbdale | 1 comment
On Saturdays, the punishing sun lashes the asphalt of our tormented neighborhood. The fresh tar bubbles underfoot. We’ve assembled where the sidewalks meet the street, each tethered to a different house by an orange extension cord. We appear to have gathered by chance, but every weekend we reconnoiter, first two to conspire about unfinished business, then three or more to form a mob we hope will terrify the vermin at house 299. The sympathizers have escaped to other towns: the childless couples, the singles, the sodomites. Just one remains. We poke tar bubbles with our shoetips and raise our voices, and yank the power cords when they tangle. When the thick skins of the tar bubbles split, we can taste their cruel tar breath. We’re keeping an eye on 299 because the undeniable threat of it looms whenever we turn our backs. If it were to fall vacant, for instance, if the lifelong bachelor who keeps to himself were to suffer a coronary episode there and die, or if he were to abandon it on short notice, no decent family would move into that nest of cells. As long as we’re here to tell the story, it may as well burn itself down through the basement and tunnel a scorched bowel straight to hell. At the end of the block, we can just make out the blue shorts, the blond ponytail, the leather bag, and the suntanned girlish legs of the unfamiliar substitute letter carrier. Unless one of us warns her, she’ll reach 299 and climb the steps. She might slide a package through the door! Will a hand slip out and pull her through? It’s time we burned a sign into the lawn to warn the unwary. We finger the switches of our power tools and watch.
Copyright © December 21, 2006
Very Short Novels 