Untitled Fiction (Part 1)
Dec. 26th, 2010 02:16 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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tamingthemuseTitle: Untitled Fiction (Part 1 of ?)
Author: tigerstriped86
Fandom: None
Rating: PG
A/N: I can't promise to be back completely just yet. The wi-fi works for now though.
Prompt 232: Silence is a great healer
Summary: Gerry's journey has just begun, standing here at the side of a hole in the ground.
Grief
Grief is a noun, characterized by keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.
Gerry wondered why he wasn't feeling any grief. He knew that a lack of grief was not necessarily a bad thing per se, but that he had been feeling grief for awhile and just possibly was tired of the emotion.
He could look down into the cutaway part of earth, fresh and deep brown with a light sprinkling of green on the top, like some kind of morbid cake. His uncle was buried down in that hole, his dead uncle, the last connection to an ancestral past he took no part in.
Gerry struggled to feel like an orphan, but found himself using cold clinical detachment to explain everything away. Old Uncle Arthur had been slipping away bit by bit for awhile now, his old bookshop the last vestige of his character left.
Old Uncle Arthur had been nearly broke on his deathbed and now Gericho “Gerry” Walsh looked down into the square abyss, greeted with a stark reflection on the black casket he had upgraded to at the funeral home for the uncle he had loved dearly. His umbrella slipped momentarily as he craned his neck down, icy rain defying his meager shelter and falling in drops like a comet against his skin.
The pastor was finished with his words, though Gerry was only now aware of it because of the silence he no longer had to drown out. The pastor whom Gerry had met this morning looked at him, a sharp, lean form with slicked back nearly white hair and slim glasses of a well to-do thirty year old. Perhaps the pastor was perplexed by a lack of tears or maybe of general attendance to the event. Gerry was not.
There was something startlingly abrupt to the end of the brief ceremony, Gericho watching as his great uncle's coffin was buried under sodden earth and rain that made a strange, cake mix sort of mud. As he began to walk back to his black sedan, Gerry tried hard to reflect and feel something. Anything. But he found that the more he searched, the less there was to feel. This bothered him.
He stopped at some sort of old country restaurant for lunch and ate his large bread bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup with a sort of mechanical hopelessness. He did not relish his next task.
Author: tigerstriped86
Fandom: None
Rating: PG
A/N: I can't promise to be back completely just yet. The wi-fi works for now though.
Prompt 232: Silence is a great healer
Summary: Gerry's journey has just begun, standing here at the side of a hole in the ground.
Grief
Grief is a noun, characterized by keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.
Gerry wondered why he wasn't feeling any grief. He knew that a lack of grief was not necessarily a bad thing per se, but that he had been feeling grief for awhile and just possibly was tired of the emotion.
He could look down into the cutaway part of earth, fresh and deep brown with a light sprinkling of green on the top, like some kind of morbid cake. His uncle was buried down in that hole, his dead uncle, the last connection to an ancestral past he took no part in.
Gerry struggled to feel like an orphan, but found himself using cold clinical detachment to explain everything away. Old Uncle Arthur had been slipping away bit by bit for awhile now, his old bookshop the last vestige of his character left.
Old Uncle Arthur had been nearly broke on his deathbed and now Gericho “Gerry” Walsh looked down into the square abyss, greeted with a stark reflection on the black casket he had upgraded to at the funeral home for the uncle he had loved dearly. His umbrella slipped momentarily as he craned his neck down, icy rain defying his meager shelter and falling in drops like a comet against his skin.
The pastor was finished with his words, though Gerry was only now aware of it because of the silence he no longer had to drown out. The pastor whom Gerry had met this morning looked at him, a sharp, lean form with slicked back nearly white hair and slim glasses of a well to-do thirty year old. Perhaps the pastor was perplexed by a lack of tears or maybe of general attendance to the event. Gerry was not.
There was something startlingly abrupt to the end of the brief ceremony, Gericho watching as his great uncle's coffin was buried under sodden earth and rain that made a strange, cake mix sort of mud. As he began to walk back to his black sedan, Gerry tried hard to reflect and feel something. Anything. But he found that the more he searched, the less there was to feel. This bothered him.
He stopped at some sort of old country restaurant for lunch and ate his large bread bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup with a sort of mechanical hopelessness. He did not relish his next task.
