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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
Things Get Moved
October 14, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Destiny, Furniture, Loss, Possession, Separation | by davidbdale | 4 comments
Which is the tool is the question never asked. For the coffee mug, the eyeglass case, the dozen indispensable items in the wire basket with the foldable handles, we are a conveyance to the top of the stairs. When the forty thousand things we’ve accumulated depend on us to get anywhere, how can we be trivial? We knew what we were doing, but we couldn’t stop. The keys need us to get to the car; the car needs us to cross the bridge. Forty-six tons of lumber, shingles and glass found a ride to the jobsite and convinced the contractors to pile them into the shape of our new house. Every morning, the city’s best ideas catch a ride in the paperguy’s car and have themselves tossed onto our lawn, but we know all we need to know already. Did the chicken invent the egg as a way of making more chicken, or the egg the chicken to make more eggs? Applied to us the question would mean, were we just a way to make the protein our kids will pass along? It makes our holidays seem a little desperate. The European conifers invented Christmas to move their pinecones to the dump. A piano eventually finds its way to a house where someone’s children learn to play and take it with them. And my keyboard has no fingers, only keys that can be strike—make that: backspace backspace backspace struck. So, what shall I type about you, my love? I helped her get where she was going? I dragged her down to my level? I know what you did for me. I once thought the meaning of life was the distance we travel together, but from here I know I was furniture that got itself hauled to the curb.
Copyright © 2006
Very Short Novels 