Memories and Sentiments

They’d hovered on the edges of the cemetery, watching the priest spout his nonsense, the case workers and hired mourners do their bit. Casey had almost done his nut when he saw the Dragon lingering on the outskirts of the crowd, dressed in sombre black. What the hell right did he think he had, showing up to her funeral?

The message on her tombstone was pathetic, “Precious Daughter”, because she’d had no parents of which to speak. The newspaper had only garbled about what a good student she was and how unfortunate her childhood had been. Casey and Trick and the others exchanged glances, and they knew what they would do.

They managed to get halfway through Seal’s official obituary - cans of spray paint, a blank wall in Wan Chai - before the cops came, and then they ran, but they’d managed to say what they wanted to say.

Dearest Sister and Fists of Fury; chess and tea under the moonlight; That time at that place with those firecrackers; the Lion Dance on New Year’s. A smattering of memories and sentiments, epitaphs and slogans. Fought with the best, died like the rest.

When Casey and the others returned the next day, they saw that someone else had added to their work, a great red oriental dragon melting out of the smoke from a rising phoenix.

With Everything He Had

“What would he want us to say about him?” Tom drummed his fingertips on his knee and avoided looking at the others.

Dan strummed a chord on his guitar. “Maybe there’s a God above and all I ever learned from love was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you...”

There were some thoughtful hums of assent. Rob had always loved the song, sung it lovingly from beneath the shadows on open mic night.

Emma cleared her throat. “How about something a little more epic?” She sang, “It’s the pain that cuts a straight line down through the heart. We call it love. We wrapped our arms around each other --”

Hugh threw a pen at her, his aim half-hearted. “Inappropriate, given how many of his aged aunts love him.”

Dan set his guitar aside, played a brief, minor glissando on the keyboard. “Well I’d rather bleed just to know why I die. Do you know why I die?”

“A little too direct, I suspect,” Tom said. He thought. Music was the only way to honor Michael and the life he’d led. None of them were talented enough to write a song for him, but they could sing one. As much as Michael had loved foreign music, the lyrics for this song had to count. He began humming a tune, one that had been hovering in the back of mind since they’d laid Michael’s wife Gina to rest a week earlier. One by one, the others began picking it up, and their gazes met as they caught onto the lyrics he was thinking of.

“...When you’re worn out and tired...when your heart has expired, oh lover, I’ll cover you...”

“He loved her with everything he had,” Emma said, “and he died for her. The world should remember that.”

(299 words)

Words and Memories

"I don't know how to put my thoughts into words," Joe growled as he crumpled yet another piece of paper, "it's not like that Bastard would put an obituary in the paper for someone he took in only for a check every month."

Jen sighed and rubbed Joe's hunched shoulders; she could feel the tension in the muscles as she kneaded at them. "Tell me about Alec," she said gently as her fingers continued their soothing motions.

Joe drew in a breath after a few moments of thought and began to speak. "Alec was the best brother a person could have ever asked for. He was kind and supportive," Joe paused again before continuing, "when we were kids and bouncing from foster home to foster home, he made sure that we stayed together. I don't have any illusions that they didn't want to split us up, but Alec wouldn't allow it. He always threatened to just disappear with me." Joe laughed, and it was a little bitter, "for some reason the government just can't handle that. They can't keep their damn noses out of peoples lives."

Joe swallowed hard and continued, "most of the foster homes we ended up in, the 'Fathers' were abusive drunks, and the 'mothers' were either to scared to do anything or they didn't care what happened. I know that Alec tried to hide it from me, but I always knew that he took the brunt of the beatings. He took my licking so that I didn't have to. He always spared me the pain. And he never complained. He never blamed me, never resented what he went through to keep us together." Joe wiped at a tear that had run down his cheek and went on in a low voice, "Alec always talked about the future with such optimism that at times I could forget everything about where we were and what was happening and live in his dream, a dream of a world where we could just be 'we'. He always said that as soon as he turned eighteen he would petition the state to become my legal guardian and that we would get a small apartment together. He promised that we would have peace at last. No more moving around, no more beatings. He always said that we would go to college together and that we both needed to study hard so that we could get scholarships to a private University."

Jen's hands slowed and came to a stop as she listened to Joe recount the life of his brother; getting lost in the vivid images that Joe painted.

"He was going to teach me to ride a motorcycle," Joe continued as the tears came faster, "We were going to have a good life, we were going to have some measure of peace." Joe curled tightly into himself, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth, "and now that can never happen now that he's gone. That vision, that dream of peace is gone, faded and buried with his death."

Jen wasn't sure how to comfort him; knew no words to bring peace to a troubled soul, so she settled for simply holding him.

After a few minutes Jen finally said, "I don't think that he needs an obituary," she said gently, "all that he is is not words on a page, but words and memories in your heart and mind. I think that that is all the eulogy that Alec needs."

Joe's mouth twitched in a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"I wish I could have known Alec," Jen said.

Joe laughed slightly, a genuine, though sad smile playing across his face, "I remember this one time..."

Two Certain Things

“What’s that?” Jade asked.

Chase slid the paper across the table toward him. “Obituary.”

“For who?”

“JC.”

Jade blinked. “What?”

“Tomorrow at 1100, I’m scheduled for retrieval. I know the press has one prepared - they always do. But I’d appreciate it if they used this one.”

“That’s - morbid,” Jade said.

Chase smiled faintly. “The only two certain things are death and taxes.”

Jade scanned the document, brow furrowed. “Well,” he conceded, “it’s not bad. A touch impersonal, but --”

“It’s everything I put into being him, but it’s not me. Of course, I’m not the one who’s going to die.” Chase stood up. “I have to pack.”

***

Their PR manager was pale when Jade handed her the obituary.

“It’s what he’d want,” Jade said. “Something one of us wrote.”

Helen nodded. The others looked ready to cry.

Jade left the room.

***

The obituary ran in the newspaper the following morning. Jade reflected that, wherever Chase had gone to school, he’d learnt to write well.

JC sang before he could speak, and he could play ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ before he could hold a fork. Family and friends will remember a bright-eyed boy whose every breath was a melody and whose single desire was to make the world smile. People might remember wildly shaggy hair, outrageous clothes, and a dreamy smile, but the world will remember his singular voice and his musical vision. Girls the world over screamed his name, but the people he loved most rounded out his life-long five-part-harmony. He is survived by his mother, Karen, and his father, Roy, a sister Heather, and his brothers - Tony, J, Joe, Chris, and Scoop. He lived to show the world its song, and he will live on in the rhythm of every heart touched by his music.

(300 words)

His Whole World

David had read Ariana's official obituary in the newspaper that day. It was well done, but he felt it wasn't complete. There was no doubt that her family loved her and would miss her, but they didn't know what had happened that night. They didn't know her like he did.

David sat down at his desk and took out a couple sheets of paper and a pen.

On April 19th at 7:45 in the evening the world experienced a great loss. The life of Ariana Kingston was cut short at the age of eighteen. Ariana was full of life and laughter. She had a passion for life that was spread over everything that she did. She loved learning, and had been accepted to a prestigious college on the east coast which she was going to attend in the fall where she was to major in Astrophysics. Ariana was quick to laugh and loved to play the piano...

David continued to write; filling the pages with her accomplishments and merits. He came at last to the end. Ariana is survived by her parents and her brothers and by her long time boyfriend David Cole.

David blotted at the page where his tears had smudged the ink slightly. He added in a few final lines. Ariana was shortly to have been engaged to David. They were to be married before going to college in the fall.

David carefully folded the papers and slipped them between the pages of Ariana's favorite book and slid it onto the shelf next to his bed. It still didn't do her justice, but it was the best he could do to sum up the life of the woman that had become his whole world.

In Action

Major David Cole was killed in action in July of this year. Major Cole was a dedicated member of our armed forces; quickly rising in the ranks to become a Major at the age of twenty-five. Major Cole served with distinction in many combat and special operations. Orphaned at 15 when his father was lost in a plane crash, he lived briefly with his aunt and uncle. He joined the military shortly after graduating high school where he made it his mission to keep the world safe.

Major Cole is survived by his team, First Lieutenant Steven Blackwood, Second Lieutenants Brian and Mark Allard, and Second Lieutenant Joseph Kendrick.

Steve sighed in frustration at how little he actually knew about his commander; how little the world knew about such a great man. Nobody knew how many times he had placed the safety of the country ahead of his own, how many times he had gone without the basic creature comforts so that others could have them. It bothered Steve that no one knew that David even existed; apart from the military and his own team. It didn't seem like enough, a short paragraph to lay to rest the memory of David. He knew that anyone reading the short clip would not know him. No one knew that he could sing or that he liked to look at the stars. No one knew that he liked to dance. No one knew that he had so great a love for one woman that most people would not be able to understand the depth of his passion for her. No one knew that he was a great leader and even better friend.

Steve knew that David didn't have anybody other than the team. Ariana was long gone and so were his parents. Steve didn't know if his aunt and uncle were still alive, but he doubted that they would even know that he was gone. In fact he would be surprised if the cared at all. Not that they were bad people, they just never connected with David.

Steve let his fingers hover over the keyboard, searching for the right words to capture the essence of David. He couldn't put in any specifics about the combat action, it was all classified and the rest seemed to personal for the casual perusal of the world.

Steve shook his head and clicked send on the screen, sending the email to the obituary columns of half a dozen papers. Even if no one else out there cared; the team cared. It was the least that they could do to let the world know that a great man had died.

Excellence, Laughter, and Memories

Holly Finnegan, 17, of Ulster, died in the incident on the High Street on March 21. She was caught in the blast of a pipe bomb that killed five other people. Holly, “Hols” to her friends, was orphaned at age four in a car accident and raised by her uncle, Caomhin Finnegan, a mechanic at an independent garage in Ulster. He recalled how Holly, who had “lads callin’ round all hours of the day and night,” pitched in at the garage and “spent an entire Saturday helping [him] rebuild an engine.”

Holly, in her fifth form at St. Stephen’s College, was a prefect and house captain. She competed on the swim team, winning medals in the butterfly, on her house and school field hockey team, and on the cross country team. Her teachers recall that she was hardworking and helpful. Her friends recall that she was spirited.

“Everyone thought she was a good girl, and she was,” Aine said, “but she was wild. She danced, she partied - she lived.” Clusters of girls and boys who knew Holly gathered in the hallways at St. Stephen’s, crying and whispering, laughing and remembering Holly. One friend, Keith O’Connor, remembered solemnly, though with a twinkle in his eye, how he and Holly once switched all the sugar for salt in the teachers’ tea room.

Caomhin Finnegan has opened his house for a wake, to be held on March 25. Caomhin, Aine, Keith, and others at St. Stephen’s ask Holly’s friends to bring merriment, laugher, and memories of Holly before she’s laid to rest at Killare Hill Cemetery on March 26 at 11:00 a.m.

(271 words)

Lady sings the last blues

College students, the hipsters working the coffee house scene, and the staff at the Dunham Center will say goodbye to Amy Reynolds, a staple of open mic night at the Haven. 17-year-old Amy hailed from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and came to New York to receive treatment for a long-term illness. According to staff and friends at the Dunham Center, she fought valiantly against her disease, and she was cheerful and optimistic that a cure was around the corner. She used to say, “Tomorrow we’ll find it. I’m willing to wait.”

Those who frequented the Haven knew Amy for her sultry voice, her folksy guitar skills, and her soulful lyrics; few were aware that she was battling illness. Her parents died in a car crash when Amy was four, and she was raised by foster parents until she went to the Dunham Center.

One of the nurses at the Dunham Center proudly recounted how well Amy did in school, always getting the best grades and helping other students who fell behind. “She was a comfort, a guiding light to the other patients at the Center,” the nurse said. Amy’s fellow patients recall how she took a particularly despondent patient, Sam, under her wing and encouraged him to work hard, be positive about treatment. In the last months of Amy’s life, Sam accompanied her to open mic night, expanding his musical skill alongside her.

A memorial service for Amy will be held in the chapel at the Dunham Center on June 25 at 11:00 a.m. The Haven will be hosting a vigil at 7:00 p.m. at the main stage. Musicians and aficionados of Amy’s music are encouraged to perform.

Sam said, “Amy was a lady. We’ll sing her last blues.”

Project #61: The Departed

So we know our characters inside and out, from birth to death. Here's what I want to see this week: obituaries. Make them funny, make them generic, make them simple but full of implication. How does David's team want him to be remembered? How does Joe want Alec remembered? Would Keith even get an obituary after the fifth time he set himself on fire?

100-300 words. Dearly departed, we love you.

Overview #60: Relaxation

At first I thought this would be a Dagaz run, but then I realized that other universes exist on this website wherein characters remained undeveloped. I know the boys in Sector Five pretty much inside and out, so it was good times working with them, but I figured other people needed some love, so I resurrected the Wordsmith and the Choirboys from the urban fantasy I will probably never properly write. Still, it was interesting, to see who did what, to see what makes people relax. Another decent week of characterization.