You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘Death’ tag.
Tag Archive
Decorum
November 9, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Death, Destiny, Eulogy, Funeral, Grief, Loss, Madness, Scream, Trauma | by davidbdale | 6 comments
All I wanted when he died was to scream. My family restrained me with an elbow between my shoulder blades and a fistful of my hair and slammed me to the wall of the trauma room as if I were responsible or forced my nose into the metaphorical stink of it all. Or. They stroked my head and cooed their little sounds of peace until my blood unboiled. It was their collective opinion that this was not the time, nor was the hospital, nor was the funeral home, the place for my hysterics. Men die was their position. The doctors and those masquerading as doctors impose a frank decorum to serve the natural course of things. Each life plays out of a length of twine, brother. Some snap early; some fray. Yours is still playing out. His was the length it was meant to be, because it was the length it was. You will restrain yourself, or submit to restraint, or be placed in restraints as a matter of course. We have a service to conduct. Friends have gathered to pay their respects. They require and they shall have the somber music Dad requested. Your selfish outburst, if you have it here, will play badly and reflect badly on us all. Escort yourself instead to the powder room tucked between the rooms stuffed with other families’ corpses; sputter your protests there and blow your nose in your hand. Your eulogy will be brief and respectful, with allowances for your notorious irreverence, it may poke gentle fun at the departed and startle the mourners into reluctant laughter, but you will not scream. Back in these rooms though, my outbursts are counted, measured, studied and admired. I am a mild case within these walls where, when I’m not screaming, they worry.
Copyright © 1999
Pre-Crash Checklist
October 20, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Airport, Crash, Danger, Death, Monologue, Speech | by davidbdale | 2 comments
Slip the flat metal end into the buckle and pull the loose end to secure the belt around your hips. Get and remain comfortable. Passenger attitude is an essential component of airworthiness, which is not to say we could cause a crash by thinking about one, but why risk it. This aircraft is equipped with floor level lighting which will guide you toward the exit when the cabin fills with noxious smoke so thick you won’t see the wall of flame approaching row by row. Or at least it was designed to be so equipped and was once certified to have been so equipped, but the failure of a simple thermal switch never tested by the team subcontracted by this airline to conduct routine inspections will prevent even that laughably inadequate safety feature from providing you any life-sustainment. Sudden loss of cabin pressure, an event so unlikely it happens to fewer than one million passengers a year, will trigger trap doors in the overhead bin, spilling oxygen masks to some passengers. Yours will be functional. The thin plastic supply hose won’t kink as so many do in testing nor melt in the intense heat of the advancing inferno, but you’ll have swallowed so much smoke you’ll merely cough into the mask and, heaving forward, tear it from the pump. If only you had kept your belt secured around your hips. Blown backward by the blast from the baggage compartment, several seats from Row 8 will be wedged incongruously between the cabin ceiling and lucky Row 13, sealing off the exit door nearest you. Small comfort your seat cushion is a flotation device! Thank you for choosing to violate gravity with us today and if there is anything we can do to make you more uncomfortable, please hesitate to ask.
Copyright ©1997
Very Short Novels 