#TellTaleThursday: Still, I Remained

This was written for #TellTaleThursday with Anshu & Priya. I’m actually early this week. Yay! The prompt has to do with death, so it an easy one, way easier than last week’s cavalcade of colors. The prompt this week is “You spend a night in the cemetery.”

Still, I Remained

 
After the funeral, all in attendance slowly exited the cemetery. They piled into their cars and left in a much looser procession than they had arrived. Everyone else went home, back to their warm, cozy homes. Some spent time with their families and continued to mourn. Others went back to their everyday lives, grieving complete, gaining closure once dirt covered the casket.

Still, I remained.

It didn’t matter that it was getting dark or that it was raining. I couldn’t leave.

Other mourners came and went visiting various graves. Flowers were placed. Tears were shed. Words were spoken to tombstones that couldn’t reply. Questions were asked that could never be answered. None stayed long as the raindrops grew larger and fell harder.

Still, I remained.

It didn’t matter that the temperature was dropping. I couldn’t leave.

The sun set, never peeking out from behind the clouds. The rain slowed and eventually stopped. The clouds parted. The sun crept up painting the clouds purple, pink, then orange before revealing itself in the eastern sky.

Still, I remained.

It didn’t matter that a new day had begun. I couldn’t leave.

It was mid-morning, with the sunlight streaming through the trees. The caretakers were arriving for another day of work. New mourners were coming and going. Fresh flowers were left. More words were spoken, and questions asked that couldn’t be answered.

Still, I remained.

It didn’t matter that my family was home mourning for me. I couldn’t leave.

Still, I remain.

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Flash Fiction Challenge: Waiting

I wrote this for Carrot Ranch’s Flash Fiction Challenge. This is my first attempt. This week’s prompt is “Colonnades.” The challenge is to write a 99-word story that somehow incorporates colonnades.

I don’t mean to be gross, but the word “colonnades” makes me think of a proctologist. “I need some help, Doc. There’s something going on back there. It’s just not right.” That is not where I went with my story, just the ridiculous preamble.

Waiting

Martha sits on the porch in her rocking chair, looking longingly past the colonnades. She rocks slowly as her fingers do their dance. Her knitting needles swiftly swirl around each other with a faint “swoosh” as they briefly connect. She occasionally glances at her growing creation.

Inside, Tom and Alex peek through the blinds.

“I’m worried about Mom.”

“She’ll be fine. Mom’s strong.”

“It’s been months. She just sits out there every day. Winter’s coming.”

“She’ll stay in when it gets cold.”

“We should call a shrink.”

“She’s mourning. Everybody mourns differently.”

“She’s waiting. She thinks he’s coming home.”

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