More Funerals, More Books

"I'm only here for the food" was the most commonly heard phrase at Alexia Smythe's funeral. Nobody really cared for her, though none cared to admit it. She simply had rubbed most of the people she had ever met the wrong way. When she passed away, no one really expected there to be anyone to step forward to conduct an expensive funeral for her. She had left a hefty inheritence to her great grand niece despite the fact that the two hated each other; the general gist of the speculation about this at the funeral was that Alexia hated every one, but she hated her niece slightly less than anyone else she might have left the money to. Still, that the niece had spent any of the money at all on this funeral was unexpected, much less a full funeral with a reception afterwards. Then again, maybe she had realized that nobody would come if there was no reception - Alexia was not the sort that people mourned when they died. Indeed, it had been most amusing watching the eulogizers attempt to think of something, anything, to say about her that wasn't negative. Watching them dance around her bad qualities and try to find any good quality was well worth the effort of coming in and of itself. Those who had come strictly for the reception, which was to say almost everyone, found themselves hard pressed not to laugh when they heard Alexia described as "a quirky old lady of great means and few interests." This was, they all agreed, by far the most polite way of saying that she was unreasonable, greedy and miserly. Indeed, by the time the reception was done, many were prepared to say it was one of the best funerals they had ever attended. They had gotten to see the end of someone they all disliked, heard an excellant, if unintentional, stand up routine, and then gotten to eat some truly delicious food. Other funerals would be hard pressed to match this performance. Many weddings would have trouble matching it too. The only question that remained was why Alexia's niece had bothered, a question that for some reason nobody bothered to just ask her.


On cold days in the early fall the wind from the mountains carries a bite that speaks of the winter to come, blown down from peaks and passes already thick with snow. The gusts whistle through the trees, plucking leaves in all the colors of fall to swirl in the breeze as it descends into the valley. When the winds reach the low places, the ravines and the deep river cuts, the catches in them and spirals in on itself until it spends all its power. Its dissipation leaves nothing behind but an eerie cold and the leaves so numerous that they smother the ravines and clog the rivers. Perhaps it was this unearthly feeling that caused such distress to those who visited the ravines, perhaps this was why, for as long as people inhabited the area, the ravines had attracted the sorrowful and lonely. The sorrowful and lonely mark the places as their own, a focus of sadness and solitude, to attract others like themselves. Through time, from simple, unmarked graves, to those who used wooden stakes to mark the places, and cairns, and later carved stone and etched reliefs, centuries of tears have stained the leaves that carpet the ground. Spring comes, and summer, and even though the winds don't blow, the ghostly cold remains.

Funeral, er, again

Zack sat next to the phone, holding her number, trying to decide if he should call her or not. It had been nearly a week since they had met, and they had exchanged numbers. It worried him that she hadn't called him, and he wondered if that was a hint, if he should just assume that it was a gentle rejection. He certainly hoped not; from his point of view they had gotten along really well, she certainly had acted interested. Indeed, if they had met at a bar or similar social setting, he would have called her already, so confident he was that their initial encounter had gone well. However, he had always been wary of meeting women in emotional situations, and he had met her at her fathers funeral, which definately counts as emotional. Ultimately, he wasn't really sure what she was thinking, what she had in mind. She had definately flirted with him, but it was entirely possible that she was just trying to distract herself from her sorrow, or something like that. He simply couldn't decide if it'd be highly inappropriate for him to call her, since if she had wanted to talk to him she could have called him any time in the last week. He put her number aside. Emotional distress was the key. She wasn't thinking clearly, she probably regretted, she would probably be upset if she heard from him. He was interested, even now, but she'd had a tough week already, so he wouldn't call, he wouldn't impose on her. Satisfied, he turned to leave, when the phone rang. "Hey, this is Zack," he said, answering it.
"Uh, hi, I don't know if you'll remember me, I'm Cassie, we met last week, at the funeral, ya know?"

(no subject)

He arrived at the funeral home at just the right time; his cousin had, as always, given him the pertinent information on todays mourners. Pulling out his book, he checked what he had written one last time; he couldn't afford any mistakes. Today's deceased was named Jeffrey Moses, and his widow, Alanna, was 74 years old. Jeffrey, 80 years old when he died, had served in World War II. Veterans' funerals were always the easiest to infiltrate, since so many people who might never have otherwise crossed paths met during the war. Today, he was going to call himself Alex Kelly, whose father, Willard Kelly, had served with Jeffrey. Reading about the funeral in the paper, so his story goes, he decided that he would stop by and pay his respects. As for his actual purpose, well, elderly widows were frequently lonely and in desperate need of an understanding ear. Who better than a kindly young man, with a connection to her past, and willing to give her the time she needed, no matter when she needed it? The scam didn't always work, but it worked often enough that he was able to live comfortably, and it was a game that he enjoyed. His only real vulnerability was the little book in which he kept his notes, on the several women that he was dealing with at any one time. Still, he made sure he kept it in a safe place, a hidden pocket, and he never pulled it out in the presence of his lady friends. He couldn't fail.

(no subject)

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" asked her mother, furious. Darcy did, in fact, know exactly what she had done, but she couldn't figure out how to explain to her mother that she hadn't done it on purpose. The chain of events that had led to the current situation was far too convuluted to be believed. So what should she say? Was there any reasonable explanation for burning her mother's diary? Was the actual reason she had done so a reasonable explanation? She wasn't sure, but she knew that she couldn't explain to her mother she had destroyed it without admitting that she had been reading it in the first place, and her mother probably wouldn't be happy to learn that Darcy was reading the journal without permission. Then again, would admitting that she had read it possibly have worse repurcussions than that she had destroyed it? Darcy simply wasn't sure. She just had to make her mother understand that this was her mothers fault, not Darcy's. If her mother hadn't written all those terrible things about him, if her mother hadn't been writing about the lies she'd been telling him, Darcy wouldn't have gotten so upset. All Darcy wanted was to keep her parents happy and together. Why didn't her mother want the same thing?


They told him that to get this job, he had to write a sshort paper explaining that he had read and understood the employee handbook. Apparently, they had had a great deal of trouble in the past with employee's not understanding their rights, claiming they were entitled to things they definately weren't entitled to, and not getting things that they were entitled to, so they changed their policy to ensure that all new hires understood the policies that were in place, whether these were there to exploit or protect them. He had a definite problem. It had never occured to him that he would be asked to do such a thing when he applied for a job packing freight boxes that he would be asked to read and write a paper. He wondered who he could find to do it for him. He had found a job that would pay him more than 10 dollars per hour; there was no way that he was going to give that up just because of the deficiencies of his education. He was sick of being treated like a second class citizen. He didn't know who he'd ask, but he'd find someone to read and write this thing for him, even if he had to pay them.

(no subject)

The tome sat in a vault specially built for it. High vaulted ceilings carved and painted by some of the greatest artists of the age in which it was built, built with the hope that these fine things would never be seen by another man or woman after themselves. The book had deserved these honors, and had sat undisturbed for hundreds of years, unread, but not forgotten. Time had done strange things to mens' memories, though. After the book had been sealed, men knew not what it contained, only that it was important enough to seal away. With time this knowledge changed, twisted, as people began to believe that whatever was written in the book was important enough to fight, and to kill, to learn. Now, outside the vault, war without end in sight was waged, as some men fought to protect the book, and others to take. None new what it contained, only that it was worth all the bloodshed, that it was great and powerful. And perhaps it was; there was none who lived that knew.