Writer's Paradise discussion
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Sweetman is starting with "Letters to Elwyn"
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This started on my writing blog http://thesweetmanblog.blogspot.com/2...Should I be posting the writing on this spot or keep it at the blogspot? Sorry I'm uncertain of the rules/guidelines.
sweetman
Mod
You can post your stories two ways...
1. Directly in your "writing cubical."
2. However, most of our writers post their stories to their Goodreads' Personal Home Page [there is a section on your Goodreads Personal Home Page, that is titled Writing:]. Copy and paste your story in that section, and then post a link to the story here in your "writing cubical."
I have moved your story to this cubical, so it will not get lost in the shuffle. If you keep all your content within one cubical it makes it easier to find you and to keep track of what you write.
Welcome to the group, and we look forward to your future postings :]
Dee Marie
Mod
Lying in State by Sweetman
Royal Helmann Dorset III was lying in state at Colbin's Funeral Home. He was dressed in his perfectly pressed navy wool suit, a crisp white dress shirt, his favorite maroon silk tie, the one with the subtle black hash marks. In his hands was placed a small, new bible and around his neck, resting on his favorite tie was a gold crucifix. Jack Colbin had done a nice job with Roy, his final resting pose was dignified. His face had the same expression in death as it did in life, it didn't look dead.
It was quiet at Colbin's, but it was always quiet. In two hours a hushed gathering of mourners would stand in small huddles, murmur and whisper among themselves about how good with was that Roy didn't suffer. They would solemnly shake Luella's hand and tell her they were sorry for her loss. The wake of Royal H. Dorset III would last about 3 hours as per his desire. And according to his final wishes, all mourners would have to file past his open casket (it was their choice to pause or kneel) to pay respects to the widow Luella Jeanne Hastings Dorset.
The weight of the silence in Corbin's seemed to press in on the windows and doors, if any living thing was in the building at the time, he or she may have said the atmosphere grew heavy but there was no one save the corpse of good old Roy. Suddenly the air was shattered with a blinding flash of light accompanied by a booming thunderclap. The deathly silence was destroyed by a blaring fire alarm. A supercell storm broke directly over Cobin's Funeral Home. Lightening struck the chimney and the a hole in the roof smoldered while bits of burning wood, shingles and brick pelted the green manicured lawn.
The fire department responded within 5 minutes and Jack Colbin was there within ten. Thankfully the lightening strike didn't cause the whole building to blow up. The damage was limited to the chimney, a small area of the roof and to the main room with the fireplace. Ash and cinders had blown down into the room, coating everything in a layer of gray dust. Some of the cinders scattered about the fireplace and made small burns where they landed. The very unfortunate thing about this was that was where the corpse of Royal H. Dorset lay, per his parting desire. Damage to the room was superficial, a good cleaning crew would have the room ready for the wake that afternoon, but the body, there was no quick fix to that.
Roy lay in his open casket, his skin singed and peppered. Somehow the blast had retracted his lips from his teeth and caused his hands, which had been so comfortably clasping the small bible to pull back and up toward his chest. His head, which rested on the soft white pillow had raised up several inches and his peacefully glued-shut eyes were wide open. It looked like good old Roy had gotten a hard glimpse at his future. Jack Colbin could have, with time and hard work, repositioned Roy to his more comfortable repose but there was nothing he could do about the skin or lack of lips and eyelids. As it was, all Jack could do was slam the lid of the casket closed and inform the widow Dorset that it would be impossible to fulfill her departed husband's wishes for an open casket.
Not one single mourner present at the wake (which took place one hour late due to the unexpected weather) was disappointed with the closed casket of Royal Helmann Dorset. No one wanted one last look at that smug face.
POSTED BY SWEETMAN AT 1:07 PM
Thank you for your nice letter. It's been too long since I last heard from you and I am so pleased that you will be coming by this Christmas! I can imagine that the wildlife around you are enjoying the verdure as we've been so fortunate as to have such nice weather so long into this fall. As you know, our dear old Porter has his arthritic joints and the longer we can keep winter at bay, the better it is for the dear old thing!
I have been writing a bit lately, but it flags and wanes. My interests vary and I can't seem to keep an idea or notion to completion! I fear I haven't the fortitude or stamina to finish a single project. Mother always said, "Well Dorothy, I guess you're a good starter!" and that was about the best compliment she could give me for all my effort. She gave me a very small wire bound notebook yesterday and said it should do for all my grand ideas.
Father does well in the morning but tends to "tire" as the day runs on. He still believes in his "medicine" and his doses are starting to come earlier and earlier. It does put something of a strain on poor Mother who tries to plan afternoon with the ladies but it's been difficult since his retirement. He tends to hover about or shout out comments to their observations from the adjoining room. Mother often sighs as she notes that his retirement has been a trial for her. Auntie Mae says her patience is running short with Father and declares he's going to be the town something-or-other if he doesn't get his head out of the bottle. Father's retorts usually have something to do with packing her valise and ushering her out to another of Mother's sisters if she doesn't like this roof over her head. Dear me, it does get a little tense but I feel it makes for some interesting observations in my story ideas. Unfortunately Mother has forbade me to write one word of family "doings" in any of my stories. I think she's still a little upset about my "Memories of Easter" essay published in the "Saturday Pages" last spring.
Bud will be home for winter break in a couple of weeks. That's always a great time. He brings such life to the house! He's written to me promising a grand New Year's celebration. I think he plans on attending a party in the city and he's promised to bring me this year. You will be able to come along--it's going to be such a grand time! He's been playing with a jazz band at college and he says they've actually come to sound quite good. Mother and Father obviously don't know a word of this, so promise me you won't spill the beans at Christmas, you won't will you Elwyn?
Well that's all for now. I'm off to help Mother prepare dinner. I'll send you my latest story as promised when I finish it! I hope you are faring well in the wilds of the woods and keeping up with the workload. The men sound a bit rough around the edges, but as you said, it builds your character.
Yours Truly,
Dot