Somewhere on the grounds of Birchwood Cemetery, a figure stands among an aging shadow of a stately oak; watching.
Her mottled fingers carelessly ripping at the rigid bark unearthing its sodden white flesh like a scabbed wound. The funeral attendees were strangers to her, perhaps family and friends of the deceased.
Respectfully she listened to the poignant sermon and noble wails parroting beneath a gather of church-style hats, pale dim faces. Nervously chewing her bottom lip with broken top teeth, she felt more like a shameless voyeur than a curious onlooker. Longing to be among them in the aura of their woe she knew it was best for everyone, including herself, to remain afar.
She sank deeper within the oaken shade, contemplating her gratitude to Mrs. Stephens for allowing her to wear the black vintage dress. Smoothing out the creases, she admiringly caressed its lattice hemline and subtle V cresting just below the cusp of her breasts which made her appear more stunning than mournful. Smiling, she fondly recalled the tired look that old woman gave her as she draped the dress over her arm before cavorting to the powder room. She didn’t know how much longer Mrs. Stephens would allow her to pilfer. She’s already attended three funerals this week but nonetheless the old woman was amiable.
Then her smile gradually diffused as the solemn images of each viewing flickered in her mind. Before anyone arrived, she stood beside their caskets. Careful not to breech the oppressive makeup, she lightly traced the leathery lines of their taut faces. Beneath their chalky display she still noticed green gray overtones of mortem. Even in rest, she noted eyeing the oak’s exposed wood, death is inescapable.
A sudden rise of the congregation caught her attention as they began to disperse. Many were embracing, reminiscing, lingering; gliding their hands across the lacquer finish of the coffin. Others laid roses upon the closed cover, lowering their heads. She knew all too well from many days of surveillance behind the Birchwood oaks, this was her cue.
Quietly, she crept down the pebbled footpath before anyone noticed, wary not to scuff up Mrs. Stephens’ heels. The old woman would not be pleased if she did. Before pushing through the iron gates, she paused. In a moment of reflection she turned to watch them slowly curb their tears and lethargically resume life. Then remembering she must return the dress, stockings and shoes to the old woman at once, she left. Heading back towards the funeral home before someone discovered Mrs. Stephens naked in her casket and before someone realized she, Jane Doe, was missing from the morgue.
©2009 Sharla Anderson
Sharla Anderson’s work is currently published in Blood Moon Rising e-Zine, Shadow Poetry Quill and soon to be Boston Literary Magazine and House of Horror. Even though she prefers writing poetry, this is her first attempt at short fiction. She lives in Pennsylvania with her three children.
September 7th, 2009 at 11:02 am
Tense, creepy, and excellent.
September 7th, 2009 at 11:53 am
She Poet, or should I say Sharla . . beautiful name . . my skin goose bumped at the end of that piece. I was certain, from my first visit to your blog that you were unique, talented and now I know for sure that’s true. I have no more words and look forward to more. Big hugs.
September 7th, 2009 at 2:00 pm
Thanks Lori! I truly appreciate it. Have a great week.
September 7th, 2009 at 7:54 pm
Wow. You blew me away with this one. Love the way it twists at the end. You have a true talent in this genre. I can see why you get published
You’re one talented gal!!
September 8th, 2009 at 4:00 pm
Sharla…I am glad I didn’t read this at night before going to bed…I would be up for a while! Great work and congrats on a concise use of words to get your story across…I am sure it is much harder that it seems.
Dan
September 20th, 2009 at 12:11 am
Creepy, evocative, and strangely sweet. Fantastic combination! Great job.
September 20th, 2009 at 9:58 am
Very visual story - poignant and poetic with an unexpected twist in the tail. Nice work Sharla
September 23rd, 2009 at 4:11 pm
Thank you all so very much for your kindness!
October 7th, 2009 at 6:08 am
That was amazing you are very talented I saw you reccomended on Glorias site I will be following you too now .. Hi
October 23rd, 2009 at 9:30 am
Brilliant! Rose and I thought felt the hairs on the napes of our necks rise as this figure decided to return to the Funeral Home. (LOL) You and Stephen have some stuff in common. Your words are concise, yet chilling. Stay in touch.
November 2nd, 2009 at 3:46 am
Pura, popped into the internet cafe to see if you had responded. Checked my email but nothing????
email:blogspotcordoba@gmail.com
Will try to check again tomorrow.
Hugs:)
November 28th, 2009 at 5:48 am
Hey,
That was a wondeful read,liked the way you portrayed the emotions & the creep send in the end.
First time here,and it was worth visiting thanks…
February 8th, 2010 at 12:32 am
Hey Pura . . It me . . Gloria. Please check your email. Hugs across the miles. Gloria