copyright Connie Gayer
The dark box lay in the hole, half covered by dirt. Soft weeping was the only sound to be heard.
“It was so sudden, right in the middle of the nightly news,” Jane said, wiping her eyes. “He got this blank look and there was no reviving him.”
“I remember the way his face glowed with life as we sat down to watch Jeopardy after supper,” Kane said. “Those were the days.”
Jane took a deep breath. “So, now what?”
Kane shrugged. “I guess we have to go shopping and buy another one. Let’s get a high-def one this time.”
The casket was empty as far as I was concerned. I had come to pay my respects to my former teacher, the piano virtuoso Horace Thornhill, but as I approached, all I saw in the satin-lined box was a dead body.
I looked at the hands that had drawn exquisite aural elixirs from ivory vessels and the face that had worn an expression of such concentration and sublimity in the midst of his performances. They were empty—as cold and silent as a marble statue.
There was nothing more than a broken piano now; the music had flown far away.
This is my 32nd Friday Fictioneers in a row. I love doing them and I like the challenge of coming up with a unique story every week. Still, I keep thinking I need a break from blogging for a while. I was planning on doing it next week, since I have a big Korean test coming up, but I think I’ll hold off for a while. Blogging is addictive, I tell you. Also, last week I got nailed with a cold for a couple of days, so I apologize that I could not read as many of the other Fictioneers stories as I would have liked.
Copyright Randy Mazie
The Devil Guards My Wife
The infernal laugh of thunder presided over her funeral. I stood far off with a fistful of wilted posies as strangers said incantations over my wife’s casket and lowered her into hell’s clammy grip.
I never saw her body. They said she fell down the stairs of the Manor while carrying linens. I nodded and didn’t believe a word.
I don’t care now about talk of rituals up there at night, and of rumors that almost froze my blood.
But that goat won’t leave. I’d kill it but I’m too scared. So I say a prayer and keep my posies.