Thursday, February 22, 2007
Young Toby sat beside his father on the wooden bench behind the church, his fingers tugging at the constricting black tie. There hadn’t been enough room for them inside. The clear sun illuminated the rolling field and archway path around the church, the craggy valley beyond them. Though it was bright, they found the bench a difficult position, the icy winter wind ripping through them as it pleased, tossing Toby’s hair in all directions. He looked to his father.
“Dad, why does the church have no more room for us? I’m cold.”
His solemn, distant hazel eyes met his son’s beside him. “Well, Tobe, there are many people who loved this young man. Just look, son. Look how many people there are.” His father’s hand stretched across Toby’s back, the other pointing to the multitude bunching up at the back door, somber men and women in black overcoats and leather gloves craning and peaking and standing on tip-toes, trying to find some way to be part of the remembrance of life. “There are so many people. Each of them wants some part of him in their hearts. That’s why they’ve come. He’s touched so many, but now they’re putting him to rest.”
“Because he died?”
“Yes, Tobe. He’s passed away.”
Toby looked at the mass of people. He cupped his small, icy hands around his ears and leaned forward, listening carefully, but he couldn’t make anything out from inside the church. There were too many people to hear what the priest was saying. He sat back, crossing his arms. A feeling of panic washed over him. How could he remember life if he couldn’t hear what the priest was saying?
“Why do we remember life even when a person is dead?” Toby asked his father.
His father stared into space. The wind kicked up suddenly, the gust exhaling through the archway beside the church. “I think… we want that person to keep living. We don’t want them to die. That’s why we keep them in our hearts. Even when we put them to rest, Tobe, we want them to keep living so we’re not alone.”
Bagpipes suddenly sounded from the arched hallway, at some distance.
“But dad,” Toby asked, “is death like resting? If you want to keep them, how can they rest?”
His father thought for a moment. A quiet smirk came over his face. He wondered about the literal way children interpreted the world and what they heard and read.
The piper passed through the archway, stopping beside the mass of people. All turned as the pallbearers passed slowly through the archway, firm with the weight of the dead. Chills reverberated through the crowd. One pallbearer, a tall man with a head of grey hair, looked with scorn at the crowd. They stopped for a moment and waited for the people to clear a path. People whispered and brushed past each other, some of them shamefully but mostly with determination, and the dead finally disappeared into the church.
Posted by Matt Carney at 12:31 PM
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
I found this story a little confusing- what exactly is going on? Who's the dead young man? Who's the gray-haired pallbearer at the end? You have a lot of really nice descriptions, and the thoughts of Toby are 'philosophically' interesting and poignant (how can the dead rest if we want them with us...), but I was distracted from all that at the end by my confusion. Also, the narration of the story stays omniscient, but it's a little inconsistent- the 'third person' focus is with Toby until: 'His father thought for a moment,' then it's with the father, and at the end it's simply general... I think this works in a longer piece ('Mrs. Dalloway', etc.) but makes for kind of rough reading in a shorter piece...
Death and the Congregation (story 1)
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Young Toby sat beside his father on the wooden bench behind the church, his fingers tugging at the constricting black tie. There hadn’t been enough room for them inside. The clear sun illuminated the rolling field and archway path around the church, the craggy valley beyond them. Though it was bright, they found the bench a difficult position, the icy winter wind ripping through them as it pleased, tossing Toby’s hair in all directions. [nice writing] He looked to his father.
“Dad, why does the church have no more room for us? I’m cold.”
His solemn, distant hazel eyes met his son’s beside him. “Well, Tobe, there are many people who loved this young man. Just look, son. Look how many people there are.” His father’s hand stretched across Toby’s back, the other pointing to the multitude bunching up at the back door, somber men and women in black overcoats and leather gloves craning and peaking [peeking] and standing on tip-toes, trying to find some way to be part of the remembrance of life. “There are so many people. Each of them wants some part of him in their hearts. That’s why they’ve come. He’s touched so many, but now they’re putting him to rest.”
“Because he died?”
“Yes, Tobe. He’s passed away.”
Toby looked at the mass of people. He cupped his small, icy hands around his ears and leaned forward, listening carefully, but he couldn’t make anything out [make out anything] from inside the church. There were too many people to hear what the priest was saying. He sat back, crossing his arms. A feeling of panic washed over him. How could he remember life [remember life? you mean remember the dead man’s life?]if he couldn’t hear what the priest was saying?
“Why do we remember life even when a person is dead?” Toby asked his father.
His father stared into space. The wind kicked up suddenly, the gust exhaling through the archway beside the church. [unclear who is speaking. Use paragraph break to set up shift in speaker] “I think… we want that person to keep living. We don’t want them to die. That’s why we keep them in our hearts. Even when we put them to rest, Tobe, we want them to keep living so we’re not alone.”
Bagpipes suddenly sounded from the arched hallway, at some distance.
“But dad,” Toby asked, “is death like resting? If you want to keep them, how can they rest?”
His father thought for a moment. A quiet smirk came over his face. He wondered about the literal way children interpreted the world and what they heard and read.
The piper passed through the archway, stopping beside the mass of people. All turned as the pallbearers passed slowly through the archway, firm with the weight of the dead. Chills reverberated through the crowd. One pallbearer, a tall man with a head of grey hair, looked with scorn at the crowd. They stopped for a moment and waited for the people to clear a path. People whispered and brushed past each other, some of them shamefully but mostly with determination, and the dead finally disappeared into the church.
Posted by Matt Carney at 12:31 PM
[Hi Matt, well it’s interesting up until the ending, but whatever effect you were striving for is not working yet. Not sure why the pallbearer has scorn, not sure why the crowd is abashed, not sure how the dead man passing into the church resolves the story. Sorry, my friend! Gonna have to make your point clearer somehow. Maybe others can see something I’m missing? Best, Tony ]
Post a Comment