Welcome curious user, to one part of a mini series I've named "Odd Couples." The goal of OC is to present unique characters and stories to the acclaimed Monster peoples that have lately taken over the web.
I hope I have done that well with this introductory chapter to Gertrude.
Consider this her literary debut.
[Please do not take offense at the dark opinions provided by these fictional characters
as they do not reflect that of my own. However, if you're so easily offended by a work
of fiction, that's more on you anyway.]
Part 1: An eternity six feet under our feet.
"...Gertrude was, above all else, a loyal and caring friend."
I forgot the woman's name on the podium, (Now of all times. Here of all places.) but
she was a friend of that Gertrude girl. She continues, trembling at each word read aloud.
"...and she always lived life to the fullest. Friends she made were always surprised by
her next activity..." And I'm practically dead in the pews as she goes on with this
eulogy - no offense to the chick up there, but I guess it would be smart to be bored to
death at a funeral.
Heh! Yeah I'm at a funeral. Bad place for a dark sense of humor, I know.
"...skiing in Colorado. She brought excitement to whoever she passed by, and I will always
remember that about her."
Gerard, a pal of mine, asked me to come see his kid-sister buried; well, that's basically
what he asked me to do. And though I'm not exactly a fan of that, I knew he'd need a good
shoulder at a time like this. So here I am.
"...I can only hope that one day soon, we'll meet each other again," The lady hardly
warbles, clearly more affected by the eulogy she probably wrote. Meanwhile, the rest of
the room is dry-eyes: either from crying their eyes out before walking in, or waiting until
after when no one is looking.
Not me though. I take no solice in watching the dead being put in the ground; it's
expensive, at times unbarably so; it's not reasuring, being taken apart by the elements;
finally, it's so repetative, people fog up as if on que. From the moment you walk in, to
when you walk out, a funeral is a cookie-cutter as it gets.
Sorry Gertrude. You get to spend eternity six-feet or so under our feet.
Just like everybody else.
Near the end of the service I stayed near the spread, gently socializing with sad family
members I might never meet again. Gerard came around the other end. I could tell from his
red eyes he'd been crying about as hard as that chubby chick earlier today - he held his
emotion back to look strong for this function, but the man lost a little sister. That'd
get to anyone.
"Glad you could come, Arch." He stuck out his hand to shake mine.
Well it's not like I'm winning any prizes going to open caskets. I bite my tongue and
accept his handshake.
"I knew I had to be here."
And from there we went on to talk about the immeadiate past: mostly about our own
wherabouts, but some of it was about Gertrude.
It wasn't even three weeks ago when she was still alive, as hopeful and as vibrant as
described this afternoon. You may've heard it a lot on the news, "There were no warning
signs!" or "She never had an enemy in the world!" but this was completely out of nowhere.
She simply turned up dead in her sleep, and no autopsy could answer why. By now, a ton of
mad theories - alot of them about dark magic - have popped up about Gertrude's death.
It's ridiculous what goes viral these days.
"It still doesn't feel real... I should've been there." He said to me. We both stayed
silent after that.
Poor guy, kicking yourself over going about your day as usual. He was planning to visit
her on his way to work, (I forget what that was...) but he was in a hurry so he pushed it
off until the next day. ...The day she 'turned up.' Since then he's been blaming himself
on and off about how he could have done something.
But young women just don't die in their sleep - or put on a little makeup before bed -
she was found just like that: face-up under the covers, with a little eyeshadow, dark
lipstick, and her best red dress. She looked more like a ghost with that stuff on her
face.
Whatever happened to her, no one could've seen coming. If only I could convince him that.
"I know how it is," I say trying to comfort the man, "and this may be the thousandth
time you've hear it, but she wouldn't want you blaming yourself for all this."
Gerard gasped lightly, then dropped his shoulders. "I know you're trying to help, and I
really appreciate it, but-"
"Nah, no 'buts', pal. There was no way of knowing this would happen to her. Driving
yourself crazy won't do her any justice."
I try real hard to ease Gerard, but I've never had great luck comforting anyone in times
like these - easing grief just isn't my strong suit, so I just quote stuff I see on TV.
(Real brilliant, Arch.)
Still, my effort seemed to work. He brightened up a little as he spoke again.
"Thanks again for coming. Means alot."
As we started to leave, a harvest moon was peaking over the horizon, throwing gold highlights
on the nearby cemetary headstones. I saw Gerard off - felt as though I had to - before
making my own way home. And for a moment, I was alone.
Ever been alone outside a graveryard at night? There's no feeling like it: you're either
completely alone, or surrounded by the dead. Pick your paranoia. Both are pretty creepy.
I take in this weird moment of solitude just before actually leaving. I'm not even sure why,
I just want one last glance over the errie stones, one more second of piercing silence.
And then I saw something move!
Something very far away, behind the cemetary gates, is roaming the graves at night. I
froze in place. The figure didn't notice, it just kept moving in a staggering line.
Immediately, three ideas pop in my head of who this person could be: a confused attendee,
a drunken passerby, or a sociopath - I refuse to believe I am staring at a zombie.
I should be running to my car, I shouldn't be standing here, playing grave-cop. I really
shouldn't be potentially risking my life for the safety of a few dead bodies.
But I'm still here. Against every other reasonable thought, I'm still frozen here, deadly
curious of this stranger.
Then some insane instinct forces me to shout at whoever it was. "Hey!" I shout at the
person, "There are some pretty stiff laws against being in the cemetary at night...I think."
The visitor turned to face me. I start walking toward it - an even crazier idea than
shouting at it.
It was only us at that cemetary, curious enough to find out what the other one looked was up to.
I climb past the gates and hurry to meet this person, despite every other feeling telling
me not to. The stranger also hurries across the stones.
I'm close enough now to describe the person: It's a woman, younger shorter and thinner
than I am; tired, as if she only just woke up; with long dark hair and a familiar red dress.
Wait... I've seen that dress somewhere before...
"What are you doing here?" I ask the person, as I hurry my pace.
She tries to respond, but her voice flickers in and out. I can't make out a word she's
saying. As I get closer, I recognize her even more. I know I've seen this girl somewhere today.
... I think I was just talking about her...
"Wait... What's your name?" I ask, almost sure I know the answer.
She pauses, maybe caught off-guard by the question. She looks like she hasn't been up in days...
I continue walking toward her.
"C'mon! No one else is in the cemetery, what's your name?"
"...My name?.." She says back uneasy, "...It's Gertrude."
[End of Part 1
Thanks for tunin' in. Hang tight, as I am currently at work on the next part of this.
Liked it? Didn't? Any advice? Please sound off in the comments. Your support goes a long way!]
I hope I have done that well with this introductory chapter to Gertrude.
Consider this her literary debut.
[Please do not take offense at the dark opinions provided by these fictional characters
as they do not reflect that of my own. However, if you're so easily offended by a work
of fiction, that's more on you anyway.]
Part 1: An eternity six feet under our feet.
"...Gertrude was, above all else, a loyal and caring friend."
I forgot the woman's name on the podium, (Now of all times. Here of all places.) but
she was a friend of that Gertrude girl. She continues, trembling at each word read aloud.
"...and she always lived life to the fullest. Friends she made were always surprised by
her next activity..." And I'm practically dead in the pews as she goes on with this
eulogy - no offense to the chick up there, but I guess it would be smart to be bored to
death at a funeral.
Heh! Yeah I'm at a funeral. Bad place for a dark sense of humor, I know.
"...skiing in Colorado. She brought excitement to whoever she passed by, and I will always
remember that about her."
Gerard, a pal of mine, asked me to come see his kid-sister buried; well, that's basically
what he asked me to do. And though I'm not exactly a fan of that, I knew he'd need a good
shoulder at a time like this. So here I am.
"...I can only hope that one day soon, we'll meet each other again," The lady hardly
warbles, clearly more affected by the eulogy she probably wrote. Meanwhile, the rest of
the room is dry-eyes: either from crying their eyes out before walking in, or waiting until
after when no one is looking.
Not me though. I take no solice in watching the dead being put in the ground; it's
expensive, at times unbarably so; it's not reasuring, being taken apart by the elements;
finally, it's so repetative, people fog up as if on que. From the moment you walk in, to
when you walk out, a funeral is a cookie-cutter as it gets.
Sorry Gertrude. You get to spend eternity six-feet or so under our feet.
Just like everybody else.
Near the end of the service I stayed near the spread, gently socializing with sad family
members I might never meet again. Gerard came around the other end. I could tell from his
red eyes he'd been crying about as hard as that chubby chick earlier today - he held his
emotion back to look strong for this function, but the man lost a little sister. That'd
get to anyone.
"Glad you could come, Arch." He stuck out his hand to shake mine.
Well it's not like I'm winning any prizes going to open caskets. I bite my tongue and
accept his handshake.
"I knew I had to be here."
And from there we went on to talk about the immeadiate past: mostly about our own
wherabouts, but some of it was about Gertrude.
It wasn't even three weeks ago when she was still alive, as hopeful and as vibrant as
described this afternoon. You may've heard it a lot on the news, "There were no warning
signs!" or "She never had an enemy in the world!" but this was completely out of nowhere.
She simply turned up dead in her sleep, and no autopsy could answer why. By now, a ton of
mad theories - alot of them about dark magic - have popped up about Gertrude's death.
It's ridiculous what goes viral these days.
"It still doesn't feel real... I should've been there." He said to me. We both stayed
silent after that.
Poor guy, kicking yourself over going about your day as usual. He was planning to visit
her on his way to work, (I forget what that was...) but he was in a hurry so he pushed it
off until the next day. ...The day she 'turned up.' Since then he's been blaming himself
on and off about how he could have done something.
But young women just don't die in their sleep - or put on a little makeup before bed -
she was found just like that: face-up under the covers, with a little eyeshadow, dark
lipstick, and her best red dress. She looked more like a ghost with that stuff on her
face.
Whatever happened to her, no one could've seen coming. If only I could convince him that.
"I know how it is," I say trying to comfort the man, "and this may be the thousandth
time you've hear it, but she wouldn't want you blaming yourself for all this."
Gerard gasped lightly, then dropped his shoulders. "I know you're trying to help, and I
really appreciate it, but-"
"Nah, no 'buts', pal. There was no way of knowing this would happen to her. Driving
yourself crazy won't do her any justice."
I try real hard to ease Gerard, but I've never had great luck comforting anyone in times
like these - easing grief just isn't my strong suit, so I just quote stuff I see on TV.
(Real brilliant, Arch.)
Still, my effort seemed to work. He brightened up a little as he spoke again.
"Thanks again for coming. Means alot."
As we started to leave, a harvest moon was peaking over the horizon, throwing gold highlights
on the nearby cemetary headstones. I saw Gerard off - felt as though I had to - before
making my own way home. And for a moment, I was alone.
Ever been alone outside a graveryard at night? There's no feeling like it: you're either
completely alone, or surrounded by the dead. Pick your paranoia. Both are pretty creepy.
I take in this weird moment of solitude just before actually leaving. I'm not even sure why,
I just want one last glance over the errie stones, one more second of piercing silence.
And then I saw something move!
Something very far away, behind the cemetary gates, is roaming the graves at night. I
froze in place. The figure didn't notice, it just kept moving in a staggering line.
Immediately, three ideas pop in my head of who this person could be: a confused attendee,
a drunken passerby, or a sociopath - I refuse to believe I am staring at a zombie.
I should be running to my car, I shouldn't be standing here, playing grave-cop. I really
shouldn't be potentially risking my life for the safety of a few dead bodies.
But I'm still here. Against every other reasonable thought, I'm still frozen here, deadly
curious of this stranger.
Then some insane instinct forces me to shout at whoever it was. "Hey!" I shout at the
person, "There are some pretty stiff laws against being in the cemetary at night...I think."
The visitor turned to face me. I start walking toward it - an even crazier idea than
shouting at it.
It was only us at that cemetary, curious enough to find out what the other one looked was up to.
I climb past the gates and hurry to meet this person, despite every other feeling telling
me not to. The stranger also hurries across the stones.
I'm close enough now to describe the person: It's a woman, younger shorter and thinner
than I am; tired, as if she only just woke up; with long dark hair and a familiar red dress.
Wait... I've seen that dress somewhere before...
"What are you doing here?" I ask the person, as I hurry my pace.
She tries to respond, but her voice flickers in and out. I can't make out a word she's
saying. As I get closer, I recognize her even more. I know I've seen this girl somewhere today.
... I think I was just talking about her...
"Wait... What's your name?" I ask, almost sure I know the answer.
She pauses, maybe caught off-guard by the question. She looks like she hasn't been up in days...
I continue walking toward her.
"C'mon! No one else is in the cemetery, what's your name?"
"...My name?.." She says back uneasy, "...It's Gertrude."
[End of Part 1
Thanks for tunin' in. Hang tight, as I am currently at work on the next part of this.
Liked it? Didn't? Any advice? Please sound off in the comments. Your support goes a long way!]
I knew you'd get the idea, @P2.0! The funny part of this blog is it was risen from the grave! (@Spinnerweb accidentally deleted this file along with some others. I whined about it and it was back from deletion. Spooky, no?)