Driving a hearse and singing “Another One Bites the Dust”, Vivian turns onto the country road, accelerates. She’s late and preoccupied with life, as a plume of dry earth trails behind.
At least she knows not to hum the refrain in front of the family at the grave this time.
Lauren is an Assistant Professor of Mortuary Science. She enjoys writing poetry that leans into short fictional fragments.
I stood behind a soaring stone pillar, summoning the courage to walk down the aisle I trod three days ago towards my father’s ashes, a box draped with a white cloth at the altar. “Jerusalem” started, yet again. My grandfather tucked my hand under his arm, and we soldiered on.
Alison Moore has spent much of her career in marketing. Now she’s writing fiction for fun. Her work can be found in Edible Boston and 50-Word Stories.
Mom so wanted to wear that dress to her granddaughter’s wedding. At least she’s getting to show it off to her loved ones waiting to caress her hand or whisper goodnight.
Look, she’s dreaming of dad, hoping he’ll still see his “lovely girl” when they meet soon, after years apart.
Carol Tymann is still banging computer keys searching out meaningful words, sentences, messages.
On the way to the crematorium a large beer truck inserts itself between the hearse and the cortege, then, despite signals to overtake, tenaciously holds its position. In the moments of sad gladness, down the line of following cars, the laughter ripples. “Harry would have appreciated that,” they all agree.
John Young is an old chap grappling with themes of limits and longings. He lives in St Andrews Scotland.
The funeral was an hour away but his grandmother was still in her robe in the kitchen , stirring away at a large pot. Transfixed.
Nobody said anything. The rest of the family sat in the lounge, talking about nothing. They ignored the phone calls.
Clouds gathered and parted. Grandma stirred.
PJ is a dramatist obsessed with writing the perfect short story.
I have watched families light the temple pyre to wish their loved ones farewell. Other people’s people; their spires of smoke.
Now I light the pyre and sprinkle rosewater on you. Your ashes will float down the river but my memories of you will hover—suspended, like a dragonfly—forever.
Mohini Malhotra was born in New York, grew up in Nepal, Thailand, India, Italy, and lives in Washington DC. She runs a social enterprise that promotes contemporary women artists from emerging markets and invests profits to better women’s and girls’ lives. She loves words and flash fiction and just had her flash story Blink published by The Writer’s Center.
“You’ve been locked in this bathroom far too long,” I whispered into the grimy mirror.
I sighed and straightened my black velvet dress. The door creaked open and I could feel their penetrating gazes.
Upon entering my husband’s funeral, I prayed that I could feign the tears one last time.
Isabella Blakeman is a sophomore at Yale University majoring in Latin American Studies.
Albert’s wife of 47 years was a concert pianist who loved her 1929 Grotrian Steinweg grand.
After she died, Albert moved it to the beach and placed her body on the strings. Floating away on the tide, the gasoline-soaked Steinweg burned quickly, and 260 strings exploded in a funereal fanfare.
Michael Coolen is a pianist, composer, actor, performance artist, and writer who lives in Corvallis, Oregon.
We held a backyard funeral for Oscar the dachshund. I delivered a memorial about squirrels, ear scritches, and bacon.
Our toddler loved him fiercely. I asked if he wanted to add anything. He knelt, patted the grave, and offered, “Just, ‘Good boy.'”
He always did know what Oscar liked best.
Beth is a whirling dervish who pauses now and again to write something. Her blog can be found at sideglimpses.blogspot.com and she can be found drinking coffee.
The crowd swelled, so she climbed onto the mailbox to see. Flags waved from every window. Men cried openly.
When the dead man’s car slowed, she saw him in the back. There was makeup on his face and his suit didn’t fit right.
He looked a lot like her grandmother.
Gianni Jaccoma was born and raised in New York City, and would really like to do some urban exploration before he leaves. He divides his time almost equally between writing stories about monsters, reading about history and watching adorable animal videos on the Internet. His website is www.gianniwrites.com.