Round 2: 1. oats vs. 9. Certain \\ Certain wins 4-3

Certain · 07-09-2014, 12:49 AM

It's raining at Church of the Redeemer's cemetery.

"To Jessica, my beautiful baby daughter ..."

She's twisting her ankle nervously, heel digging deep in the mud. The lack of sleep has her bugged. Trying to be at peace. Wistful but acting earnestly, she listens to the sermon. Steps in closer to her boyfriend, Todd. But Todd's emotions are avoided, lost in those sexy eyes, deep-set, like depths of oceans. Her mascara's dripping. She's crying, sure. But mostly she forgot a hat. The timing's poor. She has a job interview tomorrow. Going to get a line of work that maybe he would've been proud of. Youngest child, sure. But she thinks of his smile. Thinks of his storytelling style and if he were the one delivering this eulogy that finds her bored.

"To Timothy, my dutiful only son ..."

He's straightening his tie again, messing with the alignment pin. Trying to keeps his eyes off the sight of him. Spitting image now within spitting distance of his future. Sure enough, men in this family always died in bed. Dignified, they said. More like, sad and lonely and alone all to keep a sense of pride, he guessed. He's seeing his own demise ahead. Gripping a that tie. Dad had given him it for graduation. High school. He'd taken pride in him. Taught him the Windsor knot. All of the fancier ones were quickly forgot. Tim figured one was enough, never had his dad's distinct panache. But he did take his instincts for people, enough to know most of those here were thin in their grief.

"To Sandra, my first-born and brightest ..."

She's counting the heads. Doesn't really remember anyone's name but wants out of this mess. She's remembering how she had fled, moved to California not because of her dad but because of the mounting of stress. Everyone here. She remembered the faces more than the names. Chorus of lames, boringly rambling through a service ordained as necessary by a religion she never had given into believing. Don't get her wrong, though, as she watched mud fling over the casket, she remembered the time dad had built up her tree house right over the hammock. And she'd slipped off and got her wrist caught in the rope. And the cast went on right before softball season. So that whole winter, once she was healthy, Dad took off on weekends and soft-tossed her balls so she could make the middle school team rather than giving up. But she ended up getting cut by her sophomore year.

"And to Dolores, my wonderful wife of 28 years ..."

She's here alone. Everyone's here, yes. But she's here alone. Supposedly grieving. She sees three people she half-recognizes and a bunch of acquaintances. And the casket's been lowered so there's nothing to say to him. She's here alone. She's supposed to be crying. Broken for four days, clutching a rosary tight. She pulls closer to Jessica, Timothy, Sandra and listens as the pastor delivers with somber tones each ribbon and honor. And that's when she knows she'll go on living without him.

07-09-2014, 12:49 AM	#2
Certain Mad fucking dangerous. Join Date: Jul 2013 Posts: 12,066 Battle Record: 40-19 Champed - AOWL Season 3 - Art of Writing League (2x) Rep Power: 85899406	It's raining at Church of the Redeemer's cemetery. "To Jessica, my beautiful baby daughter ..." She's twisting her ankle nervously, heel digging deep in the mud. The lack of sleep has her bugged. Trying to be at peace. Wistful but acting earnestly, she listens to the sermon. Steps in closer to her boyfriend, Todd. But Todd's emotions are avoided, lost in those sexy eyes, deep-set, like depths of oceans. Her mascara's dripping. She's crying, sure. But mostly she forgot a hat. The timing's poor. She has a job interview tomorrow. Going to get a line of work that maybe he would've been proud of. Youngest child, sure. But she thinks of his smile. Thinks of his storytelling style and if he were the one delivering this eulogy that finds her bored. "To Timothy, my dutiful only son ..." He's straightening his tie again, messing with the alignment pin. Trying to keeps his eyes off the sight of him. Spitting image now within spitting distance of his future. Sure enough, men in this family always died in bed. Dignified, they said. More like, sad and lonely and alone all to keep a sense of pride, he guessed. He's seeing his own demise ahead. Gripping a that tie. Dad had given him it for graduation. High school. He'd taken pride in him. Taught him the Windsor knot. All of the fancier ones were quickly forgot. Tim figured one was enough, never had his dad's distinct panache. But he did take his instincts for people, enough to know most of those here were thin in their grief. "To Sandra, my first-born and brightest ..." She's counting the heads. Doesn't really remember anyone's name but wants out of this mess. She's remembering how she had fled, moved to California not because of her dad but because of the mounting of stress. Everyone here. She remembered the faces more than the names. Chorus of lames, boringly rambling through a service ordained as necessary by a religion she never had given into believing. Don't get her wrong, though, as she watched mud fling over the casket, she remembered the time dad had built up her tree house right over the hammock. And she'd slipped off and got her wrist caught in the rope. And the cast went on right before softball season. So that whole winter, once she was healthy, Dad took off on weekends and soft-tossed her balls so she could make the middle school team rather than giving up. But she ended up getting cut by her sophomore year. "And to Dolores, my wonderful wife of 28 years ..." She's here alone. Everyone's here, yes. But she's here alone. Supposedly grieving. She sees three people she half-recognizes and a bunch of acquaintances. And the casket's been lowered so there's nothing to say to him. She's here alone. She's supposed to be crying. Broken for four days, clutching a rosary tight. She pulls closer to Jessica, Timothy, Sandra and listens as the pastor delivers with somber tones each ribbon and honor. And that's when she knows she'll go on living without him.