A short story!

[MusPuppis]

I hope this is appropriate to post. Its a little out of the ordinary. I've been a little out of sorts lately and decided to write a little bit. This is what I ended up with. Also a number of poems, but I'll only post those if theres any interest in them. I figured I'd toss this up here since I figured some folks may get a little enjoyment out of it. I like it anyway and it was fun to write.

 

A quick note, historical facts may be skewed! This was not a research paper, simply something I wanted to write, so I kinda pulled it together from my jarbled imagination and hazy remembrance of facts, names, deeds, places and the like. Patton and Hirohito being an example. If I offend anyone - sorry. Theres only one line that might, and I'll leave it to the reader to find it.

 

 

 

 

An Evening of Theatre with the Dead.

 

An autumn night, clouded and gemmed was host to a most gala and rare occasion. In a small valley, well away from the prying eyes of any souls not yet departed a curious cadre was to be seen erecting a stage, setting out chairs, and decorating the dusty floor of the clearing in which they labored. Zombies rung the outskirts, tying corpse candles to poles dug into the ground and festooning them with crimson and black wisps of silk, their struggles adding an air of pallid motion to the scene, wavering and flitting about as they tried to escape. There was much to do before the guests started to arrive.

 

A grand night! A gala night! A play for the gaunt, blessed and damned offering the best the living world had to offer by way of entertainment. The guest-list was a who’s who of corpses. The very cream of the reaped crop. The royalty of all time was due to arrive, the most famous, loved, hated, feared and rejoiced. The shepherds floated listlessly about, waiting to usher in those under their wing, or sickle, whatever the case may have been.

 

It seemed to be taking over-long but finally the stage was set and the scene was prepared. Word was given to the shepherds and the gateways opened.

 

The corpses began arriving bit by bit. (Some quite literally). At least 80% of Hitler was in attendance, the other 20 some odd percent expected before the show was due to commence. Henry VIII was sporting three wives in six pieces. Ty Cobb was to be heard long before he was seen but all in all he was said to have behaved himself admirably. Keith Richards had to be turned away when it was realized he was not actually dead. Many of the deceased had to be assisted; being in no shape to move about on their own but a few industrious souls had sewn themselves together with twine or other implements of the grave. While still others were seen to lend appendages and aparati invented, borrowed or stolen to those in more dire need than themselves. Good will was much in evidence. Mr. Poe and Mr. Lovecraft seated themselves in the shadow of a twisted pine and were seen to murmur and whisper to one another through-out the night, not socializing over-much but still, they were in high spirits and amicable enough. All were draped in the finest their respective graveyards had to offer. Victorian dress seemed to hold most preferred but the collection of costumes was as diverse as the shambling mass that dawned them.

 

A name tag was dispatched to each corpse as it arrived. Stating the deceased’s name, where they now resided and the means and method of their demise. Trouble arose when Joan of Arc arrived however. The concierge found it impossible to affix her tags as they simply burst into flame. She was also damaging the ambience by casting a most tawdry light over the proceedings. The corpse candles were flat-out terrified of her. A solution was quickly thought up and a deceased midget was summoned, his job being to hold a small wooden sign giving the details normally contained on the badge as well as thin gauze of smoked silk to slightly alleviate Joan’s glare. Similar problems arose in other areas but the dead are industrious and clever and none proved impossible to overcome. Hitler, once fully arrived was placed in a zip-lock bag an attendant had been smothered in and his tag stuck to that. No pets were to be allowed but upon Hemmingway's arrival it was seen that the rule would have to be waived, Mr. Hemmingway sharing company with no less than 12 cats in various stages of decay. The cats proved a great hit in the end, fanning out amongst the audience in search of laps still ample enough provide a comfortable spot to wile away the night. Oh what a fantastic night! It was even thought the occasional heartbeat could be heard amongst the guests. A grand occasion indeed!

Some minor bickering was to be seen. Patton and Hirohito nearly came to blows, but politics were strictly disallowed and considering the motley and diverse assemblage things went very well indeed. The night was not for bickering or the renewal of hostilities and in general the gravity and rarity of the occasion was enough to suppress most of the disagreements that would normally plague (the bubonic variety being the cause of most concern) such an event.

 

The front row was reserved for the guests of honor. Garland Workman was first on the list, and first to arrive. He was dressed in a fine suit of black Italian silk with a stunning pink under-shirt. In his hand a cigar, on his feet a most curious pair of shoes. The other spots were taken by an assortment of other great artists, religious leaders and dignitaries.

 

A small, decrepit and out-of-the-way table marked with a folded piece of velum that read "Press Table" was to accommodate the various reviewers and journalists enlisted to cover the event. A curious fellow wearing a name tag that read "Dr. Gonzo" sat at the far right, buzzing and flitting about in a most disordered fashion. It was quickly realized he was in fact one Hunter S. Thompson and only recently deceased. Death was a disorienting experience and his odd behavior was generally contributed to that. He settled in after a few moments and was seen to stare at one of his fingers for the remainder of the night. Little attention was paid him however and the other members of the press were simply thankful he had found a way to occupy his time.

____

The crowd had settled down and it appeared everyone had arrived. Not an empty seat in the house. The refreshment tables, having been picked clean by the arriving guests were disassembled and then removed. The show was still a moment in the commencement but the time had very early arrived and it was reflected in the anticipation seen on the faces of the be-stilled audience. Those with a face at all, that is to say. A large number of the guests were little more than bones adorned in finery.

The players themselves, or at least those able bodied enough, sat behind the curtain going over lines, practicing their breathing (a much needed exercise since many had been long removed from its practice.) and generally making themselves ready. This was to be a grand play, adapted by Shakespeare from a classic comedy airing some decades removed in the living world. It was unfortunate however that the production was presided over by allegations of misconduct on the part of Mr. Shakespeare. Accusations of stolen ideas and failure to give credit had been brought to light by the Marquis de Sade , who it was well known had originally been a collaborator on the project but was fired under suspicious circumstances midway through pre-production. Mr. Shakespeare was adamant however that the Marquis’ contributions to the play had been few to begin with and all very much removed. Proof of this was offered in some 60 deleted pages regarding bathing in the blood of virgins, eating children and setting puppies on fire. This out-of-character writing coupled with the Marquis having flayed several of the stage hands forced Mr. Shakespeare to let him go. He looked forward to being vindicated when the case went before the angelic courts in the fall.

 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity the hubbub was quieted by the right hand of the concierge, held in his left and waved about like a baton. "Quiet everyone, quiet, the play is about to commence! Everyone please take your seats". A motion was given signaling the zombies ringing the proceedings to dim the lights, which they did by using simple clubs to bludgeon approximately 2/3rds of the Will-O-The-Wisps held captive to the poles. This was also assisted by moving Ms. Arc to the rear-most row of seats. She protested but the midget calmed her and the ambience was set!

 

The curtain was drawn back by a beleaguered stage-hand with one arm, revealing the opening act’s first scene; what looked to be a circa-1950’s modern apartment. The audience lightly clapped to show their support of Mr. Reeves, who, having been cast into the role of a sofa, was playing it to perfection, holding perfectly still and not moving a muscle. The gentle clapping reached a fevered climax though when Desi Arnes slid into the scene exclaiming as loud as his decimated lungs would allow "LLUUUUCCCYYYY, I’M HHOOMMEE!" It nearly brought down the house.

 

The scene now was Miss Lucille Ball herself, playing the part of a drunk to dead perfection trying to utter the convoluted phrase "vitametavegiman". Disaster was narrowly avoided though when her jaw, under the strain, very nearly fell off. Being a consummate professional, she caught herself and moved on as if nothing astray had occurred. Her performance was agreed to be powerful and moving.

 

The scene changed again, displaying a factory producing hamburgers at an alarming rate. Lucy struggled to keep up and the comic hilarity nearly shook the already poorly assembled audience apart. She was assisted by Ethel, played by the immortal (well, not really, clearly evidenced by her participation in the play) Norma Jean who had been criticized originally for her inclusion, critics owing it to sex appeal and not talent. They were silenced though as she gave a performance to rival her part in Billy Wilder’s "7 Year Itch".

 

Oh it was a grand night, speckled in old elegance and splendor, with the trappings of comedy and sadness. It had to come to an end though, Entropy holds sway in all things and finality is unavoidable. The shepherds came and there was some fuss. Stalin and Hitler tried to sneak into heaven but Baal caught them before they made it very far. An addled Ronald Reagan had wondered off during the performance and had to be located while Henry VIII raised the alarm when he couldn’t find the head of his 3rd wife. All was settled, the head was found, Mr. Reagan was corralled and the remaining swamp lights were set free. The stage was taken down, the chairs packed back up and all was peaceful as the grave (pun very much intended) in a very short period of time. Death comes to all things and after that most excellent show, this decaying observer isn’t nearly as upset at the driver of that Wonder Bread truck as he was this morning, having been witness to so stellar a performance and seeing, in person, those very souls that shook the world with laughter, fear, hope, pride, love, prejudice and wonder.

 

The dead stir in the old places and are not idle.

 

- This is to the departed, both dearly and welcomed and to our place in the finish. Who knows what’s to come and who knows who we’ll see again.

[Mike kZ]

Been watching Dawn of the Dead? Nicely written, good job!

[rags]

I do believe we have a writer among us!

[MusPuppis]

lol.

 

I've written for years. Publishers in one form or another dont really care for my stuff though. Of course, getting poetry published (thats most of what I write) is akin to getting your prostate checked with a miner's spade.

 

A couple of poems, more recent than not.

 

I feel so much of autumn now,

the winds and rains and change,

as they blow that saintly, earthly dirge,

they take bits of me away.

again, again, the leaves have fell

and with them some of me,

so little left to trod this place,

so little left to see.

O hope and glory long have died

my songs have faded, gone.

my eyes have lost the shine they held

when I was young and strong.

age has withered bones and heart

where sorrow marked his pass

my love, my life is cast aside,

as autumn breathes it last.

winter holds its laden chill

and summer burns like fire

spring has never held a grip,

beyond the winter's pyre.

But aumtumn winds will blow again

and carry me away

so little left, so little seen

I've not that long to stay.

 

 

In all the world the shadows stir,

But no stir of their's is hers.

Gone unto the silent dead,

No stir of her's is heard.

Past at last, this mortal step,

Where I am left to mourn,

To glide and fly in inky skys,

On wings from heaven shorn.

No magic and no glory now,

Just horrid, lasting days.

No comfort, kiss or lasting bliss,

Just wretched shades of grey.

Until I reach the finish then, I'll mourn that love I'd known

With my eyes to frame the sunset and my back turned e'r toward home.

[Yorgee]

Wow...nicely written Muspuppis. I know I can say that cuz I actually read the whole thing. Good read. Now if I could only write like that on my essay due tomorrow....

[veritech-z]

Did an illustration for your story real quick whilst watching Futurama...

[MusPuppis]

Thats dope Ver, Much appreciated!

 

Oh, I write essays for money! j/k. well, actually, I think 4 or 5 of my friends made it through their english classes without ever typing a word of their own, lol.

 

I wish to hell I could draw. Ive tried for years and years but it is absolutely not in me. I had my hands smashed up bad when i was younger, that may have something to do with it, but I think I was just born without that certain ability, lol. I envy the hell out of anyone who can though..

 

I appreciate the comments folks, if anyone has suggestions on improvements, I'd love to hear em.