Post by Absinthe on Jun 16, 2008 22:31:50 GMT -6
This is a story that I've started writing. I'm tentatively calling it Mourning Molly but that's subject to change. Basically, I've gotten stuck. The original plan was to have the story from Sarah's perspective and then through a series of flashbacks, show how she cycles through memories of her little sister Molly in an effort to cope with her death. I had planned on starting with the day of the funeral, as I have, and then gradually cycle back to the day that Molly is diagnosed with luekemia. The only problem is, I've kind of lost the train of thought to lead me into the first (and then subsequent) flashbacks. Suggestions are definitely needed and also, please rip apart what I have, so long as the hardcore criticism is constructive. Anyway, here's what I've got thus far:
Sarah Thompson hated funerals. She hated everything about them; from the traffic blocking funeral processions to the long-winded eulogies. She hated the stench of death that pervaded every service and couldn’t stand the teary-eyed proclamations of despair. She despised the black clad mourners – most of who hardly ever cared for the deceased and simply attended to save face. She hated closed casket services because she couldn’t stop herself wondering at what mutilations caused such cover up. She hated open viewings because of the eerie, waxed over look to a dead face. Though she’d never admit it, the “simply sleeping” quality of an embalmed figure sent a chill down her spine.
More than anything, Sarah hated what funerals signified. She was all about the living, breathing side of life. Death was something she avoided thinking about at all costs. Being forced to realize her mortality could put a damper on even the best of her moods. If she could, she would avoid even the concept of death until the moment her last breath rattled free from her lungs. For quite a while, she’d been doing a commendable job at refusing to acknowledge its existence, but death had called and been answered far closer to home than Sarah had ever expected.
It was an average, everyday sort of day; a Saturday like any other. The sky was a cheery blue rarely seen in Western New York and a cool breeze swept across manicured lawns and too hot pavement. It was the picture of a perfect summer’s day.
It was all wrong.
For Sarah, it seemed almost as though the world were adding insult to injury by presenting such a day at such a time. The sky was supposed to be overcast with drizzly rain and biting early-autumn like winds. There weren’t supposed to be birds twittering pleasantly and children laughing in the park nearby. The world was supposed to have stopped turning. People across the globe were supposed to pause for a moment of their lives and realize that someone somewhere was hurting. She wasn’t supposed to feel perfectly comfortable in her simple black dress with the breeze playing cinematically across her form, twirling the skirt and joyfully tossing loose strands of hair. She even toyed with the idea of pulling a wool sweater from the attic so her outside would feel as irritated and uncomfortable as her inside. It just wasn’t right.
This shouldn’t be happening. She shouldn’t be here, at this funeral. It should have been Molly attending Sarah’s funeral; not the other way around. Molly was supposed to live forever. Her youth was supposed to protect her from any and all harm. Sarah shouldn’t be standing in front of a miniature coffin as Molly’s second grade photo smiled at her from the pulpit. It just wasn’t supposed to happen. Little girls like Molly weren’t supposed to get sick and die. Little girls like Molly were supposed to grow old with the love of their lives and have dozens of grandchildren to spoil. Little girls like Molly were supposed to grow up and cure cancer, not be afflicted by it.
Help!
Sarah Thompson hated funerals. She hated everything about them; from the traffic blocking funeral processions to the long-winded eulogies. She hated the stench of death that pervaded every service and couldn’t stand the teary-eyed proclamations of despair. She despised the black clad mourners – most of who hardly ever cared for the deceased and simply attended to save face. She hated closed casket services because she couldn’t stop herself wondering at what mutilations caused such cover up. She hated open viewings because of the eerie, waxed over look to a dead face. Though she’d never admit it, the “simply sleeping” quality of an embalmed figure sent a chill down her spine.
More than anything, Sarah hated what funerals signified. She was all about the living, breathing side of life. Death was something she avoided thinking about at all costs. Being forced to realize her mortality could put a damper on even the best of her moods. If she could, she would avoid even the concept of death until the moment her last breath rattled free from her lungs. For quite a while, she’d been doing a commendable job at refusing to acknowledge its existence, but death had called and been answered far closer to home than Sarah had ever expected.
It was an average, everyday sort of day; a Saturday like any other. The sky was a cheery blue rarely seen in Western New York and a cool breeze swept across manicured lawns and too hot pavement. It was the picture of a perfect summer’s day.
It was all wrong.
For Sarah, it seemed almost as though the world were adding insult to injury by presenting such a day at such a time. The sky was supposed to be overcast with drizzly rain and biting early-autumn like winds. There weren’t supposed to be birds twittering pleasantly and children laughing in the park nearby. The world was supposed to have stopped turning. People across the globe were supposed to pause for a moment of their lives and realize that someone somewhere was hurting. She wasn’t supposed to feel perfectly comfortable in her simple black dress with the breeze playing cinematically across her form, twirling the skirt and joyfully tossing loose strands of hair. She even toyed with the idea of pulling a wool sweater from the attic so her outside would feel as irritated and uncomfortable as her inside. It just wasn’t right.
This shouldn’t be happening. She shouldn’t be here, at this funeral. It should have been Molly attending Sarah’s funeral; not the other way around. Molly was supposed to live forever. Her youth was supposed to protect her from any and all harm. Sarah shouldn’t be standing in front of a miniature coffin as Molly’s second grade photo smiled at her from the pulpit. It just wasn’t supposed to happen. Little girls like Molly weren’t supposed to get sick and die. Little girls like Molly were supposed to grow old with the love of their lives and have dozens of grandchildren to spoil. Little girls like Molly were supposed to grow up and cure cancer, not be afflicted by it.
Help!
