TOPIC: Final Rest -A Short Story-

I come up to this graveyard every weekend.

I'm standing here looking down at a grave that I've polished so meticulously; any specks of dirt force this immediate anger out of me. It's almost as though the grave being clean is the most important thing in the world to me.

Maybe it is.

I don't know what happened. One minute, you were here. The next, you weren't. And I blamed you, I blamed you because I thought that blaming you would mean I'd feel even the slightest bit better about losing you. That I'd at least have a way to vent this flurry of dark emotion that floods my mind every time I'm here.

When it happened, I couldn't bring myself to come here after the funeral. I couldn't bear looking at your grave because I knew that looking down at it would mean that I'd be resigning myself to the fate that you were, in fact, gone. That I'd never see you again.

Am I wrong for wanting to believe that you might come back? Now I'm just going in circles.

I'm sitting at your grave, now. I'm looking up at the sky and I know what you'd say. "Cherish it. Cherish the blue skies because they are the world's way of smiling down at you."

It's been a year. And this is the first time I've come here on a weekend when it's light out. When it's this nice out. Because all I can remember is you telling me how much you wished the sunny days would last forever and how the final time we spoke, you were saying you wanted to buy me sunglasses because they'd make me look all... distinguished and cool.

Friends. Best friends. I'd go so far as to call you the one person that I could truly consider my family outside of my family. And you're gone.

I get up after spending an hour sitting by your grave and reading your favourite book, The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde. I read it out loud on the off chance that you might be listening. There's no-one around. No-one that can really give a damn about a guy reading a book to a dead person.

I look at your grave one more time. And I'm ready to go. And I'm finally starting to accept that it wasn't my fault. That it wasn't your fault. That in this crazy world, you were the unlucky person who gets into a horrible car accident and doesn't survive. And that even though you're gone, and even though I used to tell myself that life without you was too difficult, I'm finally accepting that you being gone is just something that I have to accept.

It took me a long time to do this. But I'm walking away, now. I don't want to look back because I know it's hard enough to hold back tears when I've had to cry every single time I'm here. All I know is this one thing:

I come up to this graveyard every weekend. And I miss you.

ZARP Poetry Section incoming?>

U
Y said short story...

Very touching. Could have had a few more details such as what the person looked like to give the reader a better idea. If you don't form the rules of the story the readers will, which you don't really want to happen. And yes it could be argued against that this isn't that kind of story where you give too many details, it's just an opinion.

This graveyard is reserved for me when I die of boredom. And now... Today's the day.

Damn, that's really good not gonna lie.

i remember the time banana slanger started poetry xD

Roses are red
Violets are blue
EMP is hot

Aspect wrote:
Sorry Michael Morpurgo

beutiful

Thanks, dudes. It should be noted that I wrote this on a whim when I was listening to something fairly sombre. It took me... I think 15-30 minutes, maybe? I appreciate that this isn't everyone's cup of tea, but I always find it fairly amusing seeing serious responses to things such as this.

Aspect, in regards to your feedback - you have a point... sort of. You see, there's a difference between the type of story this is, and the type of story that is built on the construct of character development. While I completely embrace and accept that some readers would rather read things that have descriptive imagery in it (and believe me, I took that into consideration), this is intended to be a short, purposely vague and mysterious piece of writing that holds true to the kind of limited exposition that defines something a little more broad in scope than your casual read. This allows the reader to build the framework; allows them to empathise while also asking questions and forming their own conclusions based on those questions. If I spoon-fed details of the person at the graveyard or the person they're visiting to the reader, it would become that much less personal - because the theme of the story is acceptance, and the harrowing mystery of death.

If it was longer, and I was planning on making it something more noteworthy like a chapter book; I'd probably include names, possible details including body-type, hair, eyes, etc. Instead, I allow the reader to take what they will from the limited information I've given. Oscar Wilde, a car accident, a fondness for blue skies, etc.

That said, thank you for the feedback, it is refreshing to see someone who knows what they like when it comes to literature.

Morgan wrote: You spelt gay wrong