After much thoughtful and careful deliberation, we have discovered that if you give seven stories to a nine-judge panel, the awesome power of pure mathematics takes over and you end up with 63 different opinions. Therefore in order to select the winner of the October 13 Friday Challenge, we now appeal to the Wisdom of the Crowd.TM
On the other side of the Read more » link you will find the three short stories that we have determined to be the three finalists. In the right column you will find a survey widget, which you can use to vote for your favorite. In the Comments section you can of course leave whatever comments you may feel moved to write.
The challenge, as you may remember, was to write a story that answers the question, What if the dead really do care about what happens to the flowers on their graves? Herewith, we present three authors’ answers to that question. Note that these stories have been “anonymized,” to make the judging as even-handed as possible.
Let the voting begin, and may the best story win. Winner—and a new Friday Challenge—to be announced on Friday, November 3rd.
"Flowers for Momma"
I
stared down at the tombstone at the head of Momma’s grave while the rain
dripped off the bill of my cap. The grey granite was wet from the rain and
glistened in the dim afternoon light. It was the first Mother’s Day since Momma
had passed away and I had no flowers to leave to honor her memory. I hoped that
if she looked down from heaven she would understand that I had very little
money to spare what with the payments on the truck and the Harley being so high
and all. I muttered something about being sorry and that I would do better next
time, then straightened up and looked around the graveyard. I noticed that several
of the other graves had flowers on them. Some of them looked fresh and some
looked artificial.
That’s
when the idea came to me. I looked around and didn’t see anybody else close by
so I made my way over to a grave that was maybe a fifty feet or so away. It was an old grave and the flowers that I
had seen from a distance turned out to be actually growing on top of the grave.
I looked around again just to make sure nobody could see me, took out my pocket
knife, and cut the flowers off at the ground.
I carefully held them under my jacket and walked back to Momma’s grave
and laid the flowers at the base of her tombstone. I knew that it was wrong to
steal the flowers, but since probably no one would notice there should be no
harm in it. I smiled as I walked away, pleased that I had found some flowers for
Momma.
¤
The
rest of the day was good. The rain stopped and the sun came out so I took the
boat to the lake and did some fishing. I caught a couple of nice bass and some
bream worth keeping. Kim, that’s my wife, cleaned the fish and we had bass,
French fries and slaw for supper. The team that I had bet a couple of bucks on
won and Kim was in a frisky mood. All in all it was a real good end to the
weekend.
I
had to get up around midnight to go to the bathroom, something that happened
more than it used to, but what can you do? On my way out of the bathroom I
flipped off the light, then stepped out into the hall and turned to go back to
the bedroom. I took maybe one step when I heard something bumping outside the
front door. I thought maybe it was wind
blowing the door on the screen porch, but just to be sure I walked over to the
window and looked out. I jumped back and my stomach clenched when I saw a
couple of figures shuffling slowly toward the door. I immediately went to the
closet, got the twelve-gauge, and stepped back to the door just as the doorbell
rang. I relaxed a little, since I didn’t think anybody that was up to no good
would ring the bell, but you never know. I didn’t want them to ring again and
wake Kim, so I flipped on the porch light, yanked open the door, and held up
the shotgun to give them a scare.
“What
the hell are y’all…” I began, then my voice choked off. Outside the door was
the most ghastly sight I have ever seen and one that I hope to never see again.
There were two figures standing side-by-side in the yellow glow of the bug
light, and as I got a look at them I covered my mouth to muffle a shriek. The
figure on the left was in a black dress that hung in rotted strips and was
smeared with red mud. Its head had no eyes and the skin was stretched tight
across its face. The figure on the right was also in a black dress that was dirty
with red clay mud, though not as old-looking. Her hair was grey; all messed up
and caked with mud. Despite this I recognized her.
“Muh…Momma?”
I managed to get out. “You…you’re dead. How…why?”
She
raised her hand and pointed her finger at me. When she spoke her voice cracked
and hissed like a worn-out record on a cheap stereo.
“Billy,”
she said. “Where did you get those flowers?”
“What?”
I shook my head in confusion. “Flowers?”
“The
flowers you put on my grave.”
It
took a moment for what she said to register in my dazed mind. “Well, I got them
from, uh, I guess I bought them?”
“Don’t
lie to me, Billy,” Momma said. “Mrs. Wilcox here says that you stole them from
her grave. Is that so?
The
thing that must have been Mrs. Wilcox nodded its head. My shoulders slumped and
I looked down. Momma always knew when I was not telling the truth.
“I’m
sorry, Momma,” I muttered. “I really am.”
“And
so you should be. But you need to apologize to Mrs. Wilcox here more than you
do to me.”
I
found it hard to look at Mrs. Wilcox. Her head was still nodding and I was
afraid it would fall off and roll into the house.
“I…I’m
real sorry, Mrs….Mrs. Wilcox.” I stuttered out. “Really, it won’t ever happen
again. I swear it won’t.”
The
thing that was Mrs. Wilcox made a sound like somone wadding up a piece of paper,
turned and shuffled away from the door.
“You
embarrassed me, Billy,” Momma rasped out. “I better not have to do this again. You
hear me?”
“Yes,
Momma,” I said quickly. “I won’t. I mean you won’t. I promise.”
Momma
nodded and turned to follow Mrs. Wilcox off the porch and out into the night.
¤
That
was a year ago.
I
sold the motorcycle and the boat and put the money toward paying off the truck,
so my finances were finally in good shape.
Mother’s
Day had come again and Kim, she came with me this time, and I stood over Momma’s
grave. It wasn’t raining and the sun was bright. I set one of the bundles of flowers
that I’d bought on the way to the graveyard on Momma’s grave and started
walking away.
“Hey,”
Kim said. “Aren’t you going to leave those flowers too?”
I
gave her a smile. “These?” I glanced
down at the bouquet in my hand then across the row of graves. “They’re for Mrs.
Wilcox.”
"Queen of the Prairie"
Slowly
it dawned on Edward that he was in a hospital room. It had been a noise, a strange,
insistent rustle, and he’d wondered at it, turning his head. His eyes slowly
focused on a woman who was comparing some numbers on the monitors near his bed
to listings on her tablet. She seemed startled to find him awake, but lowered
the tiny screen and bent close, inspecting him.
“Mr.
Andrews?” she intoned, her gaze slipping from one eye to the other, studying
his pupillary response, he supposed. Understandable, but annoying.
“Where
am I?” he managed. His voice was an abused whisper. This tongue felt swollen.
Even his gums felt odd.
“You’re
in the hospital,” the woman confirmed, “in the ICU. I’m Dr. Westing. I’ve been
looking after you these last few days. You gave us quite a scare. How are you
feeling?”
“What
happened?” Edward whispered. “Was there... accident?”
“No,”
Dr. Westing replied. “You were stung by a bee. Did you know you’ve got a very
serious allergy to bee venom?”
“That’s
ridiculous,” Edward grunted, giving a weak cough. “I’m around bees every day.”
“Ever
get stung by one before?”
He
opened his mouth to assure the doctor that of course he’d been stung,
but closed it. Had he never gotten stung? Not once, even as a child? He
thought back, but couldn’t actually remember getting stung. It seemed strange,
and even stranger that it had never occurred to him before.
“You’re
lucky,” Dr. Westing continued. “A young woman brought you in. She saw you
collapse, and happened to be an EMT. She called an ambulance, kept your throat
open with a breathing tube, and dosed you with epinephrine.”
“I
think I remember her,” Edward said. And it was true: he remembered that she’d
cut him off as he’d been turning into the cemetery, and his terrifying veer to
one side. She then proceeded him through the iron gates, seemingly oblivious.
He’d been angry, his weekly ritual disrupted by the near miss, and had stepped
out at once, intending a rant he’d later regret. But she’d been distraught,
upon leaving her car, and his anger had evaporated as he’d watched her hesitate
before moving off between the headstones, head bowed. He remembered turning
back into his car, grabbing the bundle of flowers awkwardly off he
passenger-side seat, his fingers still entangled in his car keys, delicate Lilium
Michiganense petals and entire queen-of-the-prairie blooms crumpling. He’d
pursed his lips as he’d looked at the damaged bouquet, and sighed. The other
flowers in his trunk would have to make up for it.
He’d
felt a squirming, among the stems, he now seemed to recall, a faint buzzing,
angry and mindless. A searing pain, just below his thumb. Out of some reflex,
he’d crushed his hand against the steering wheel, the horn unexpected amid the
silence of the cemetery. Through the windshield, he’d seen the woman turn back
at the sound.
“She
came back?” he asked the doctor, who had taken out light and was peering into
his eyes from close proximity. When she was finished, he closed his eyes,
seeing the afterimage dance in the darkness behind his lids, feeling exhaustion
sweep over him.
But
of course the woman had. She’d looked back more than once, as Edward had risen
from his driver’s side door, eyes already squinting, breathing already shallow,
his hand on fire. Edward remembered leaning, one arm on the hood of the car,
the other draped over the door, seeing the young woman turn as she walked,
watching him. Beyond her, Edward had been able to see the grave of his Monica,
the bright flowers surrounding the stone.
As
he’d fought to walk along the same path the young woman had, he’d been keenly
aware of her, glancing back at him. Edward remembered. at the time, thinking
she imagined him some sort of threat, so often did she peer back. A stalker, or
some deranged menace. But now, as he considered his short vigil in front of his
wife’s grave, with the colors of the flowers rising up to meet him, Edward
realized she’d seen something wasn’t right. She’d been looking at him as he’d
collapsed among the flowers.
Edward.
He
opened his eyes, realizing he was still in the hospital, and it was later,
hours later. His room was darkened, but not dark. Had that been a voice? It had
been the sort of sound one might hear while waking, and incorporate into a
dream, the strangeness of it startling enough to awaken.
Edward!
There: a voice, faintly intoning his name. He patted his hips, as if
looking for his phone. Was there a drawer here, with some of his personal
effect? A plastic bag? The voice had sounded muffled. Edward, he heard
it say, tinny and urgent. You must come back.
“Hello?”
he ventured, his throat grinding out words with reluctance. He tried again.
“Can you hear me? I can’t find my phone!”
He
felt like a fool, suddenly, hearing his words to the empty room. He found
himself speaking toward the window, and realized he must be facing the front of
the hospital, or perhaps his room was above one of the many parking lots. The
voice he’d heard was simply someone six or seven stories below him, standing on
the sidewalk, calling to her husband, or brother, or something.
I’m
not on your phone, the voice replied. It came from directly behind his bed,
the top section of which was elevated. Edward jerked around, his sore muscles
protesting. Behind the white-wrapped mattress, the wall held any number of
specialized plugs, but was otherwise featureless. With an effort, he lugged
himself up enough to peer behind the propped-up part of his bed. Nothing.
“Where
are you?” he asked. He heart hammered painfully, and he found himself looking
at the bandaged thumb on his left hand.
I’m
close, the voice replied. Now, listening for it, Edward heard the strange
hum of it, accompanied by the most delicate scrabbling sounds. Like a pine
needle dragging against taut cloth. Could he be hallucinating?
“Monica?”
he whispered.
We’re
not Monica.
The
voice came from right next to his ear, and Edward jerked to one side, his eyes
affixing on the bee on the pillow. As Edward drew in a strangled breath, the
creature raised its wings, and they blurred into humming motion.
Not
yet, the humming said, modulating frequency and pitch to form words. We’re
not Monica yet.
Edward
finished drawing his breath, and then drew another, his eyes never leaving the
insect beside him. His new fear of it warred with his familiarity, leaving him
balanced, unable to respond. The sight of it brought him back to the long
afternoons he’d spent with Monica, she tending her bees, he his flowers.
“Apis
mellifera,” he intoned. The bee stared, impassive save for a flexing of it’s
antennae.
We
need you to return, it replied, its wings a shimmer of movement. We’re
not done yet. We’re not Monica yet.
Unable
to take his eyes of the insect, he listened as the creature told him more, and
then still more.
One
hour later, just after dawn, Edward checked himself out against Dr. Westing’s
advice. He found his possessions and phone, as he suspected, in a drawer in his
room, contained in plastic. His phone was entirely discharged, so he used the
hospital’s to call a cab, and took it to the police impound. After paperwork,
he plugged his phone into his car charger, and dropped it onto the passenger
seat, empty save for dried flowers.
He
started the car, and shifted it into drive.
“Where
to?” he asked. From behind his ear, a buzzing voice sounded, the wings whirring
against his skin where the insect nestled, and he could feel the wind from them
shifting his hair.
Return
home, the voice said. We’re going to need flowers. Lots of flowers. It’s
been nearly too long.
One
bouquet at a time was no longer going to be enough.
After
arriving at his home, and entering the back yard, Edward had realized how right
the bee had been: Monica had seven hives, which was thousands of bees. He
watched from his flowerbeds as the writhing clouds entered his car through the
still-open door. Working quickly, he loaded the trunk with trays of native
flowers he took directly from his gardens, from delicate Viola Cucullata
to the more dramatic Lythrum Virgatum.
He
paused at the driver-side door, looking at the swirling bees blanketing every
surface within.
“You’ll
need to be careful,” he said. “I’m allergic to bee stings.”
I’d
never let anything bad happen to you, a thousand wings assured him, their
mixed tones now exactly matching hers.
“I
miss you, Monica,” he said softly, starting the car.
We’re
not Monica, the voice reminded him.
Not
yet.
"Let the dead bury the dead"
The
flowers are cut, sliced from their life-giving source. Frightened and cold,
they meet wire-wrapped fern fronds, a polyester ribbon, and oasis foam. Oasis
that gives the appearance of life while drawing out the inevitable end.
The
dead wood is taken from the shed, hardened, life dried out until it warps for
the last time. Formed into strong, solid planks, and nailed into the form of an
ark.
The
stone is cut from the ground. Removed from the roots of the mountain. Sized and
shaped. Characters carved into its once-living skin.
The
earth is lifted and set aside. Coarse remnants of a million lives that lived
for ten thousand years. Pieces and bits so far gone they no longer remember the
sun. They shrink from the light and tremble in the breeze.
The
new death is placed into the ark and lowered into the cradle of the warm earth.
The billion pieces replaced until stillness returns. The old dead welcoming the
new as both sacrifice and friend.
The
dead stone sits as sentinel. A reminder for the living, but a guardian for
those below.
The
living visit, moving through grass, green and growing. The grass is living and
breathing and freshly cut. Coddled by sprinklers. Skinned for a moment, and
quickly replaced to hide the dead below.
The
trees shade the mourners as grass soothes their tear-burned eyes. The living
mourners who need the living grass and sheltering trees to remind themselves it
is noble to live.
The
mourners lay the cut flowers, cleaved blossoms gasping for breath, on the grave.
Knowing without knowing the comfort the dying bring to the dead.
As
if still living, the flowers nod in the wind, bow in the rain, glow in the sun.
The bees buzz to the fading blooms, thinking they live while taking what life
is left.
Remind
the flowers they are dead. Let them quiver in the night as the ghosts pass by.
Let the stems, drowned in rain water, grow black and mushy. Let the leaves wilt
and curl. Let the petals wither and gently fall to the grass below.
The
trees see all, their branches stretch to the living, their roots commune with
the dead. They feel the dying light that reminds them to mourn. They spill
blankets of leaves, life singing to death via airmail.
Do
not clear their song with blowers and rakes, or gather the yellow-orange letters
into black bags. Do not pile their precious death gift where no one can hear.
Do not silence the mourning trees.
The
rain joins the song of the leaves. The immutable water breaks apart the
pieces—orange to brown to black to loam.
The
wind knocks over the flowers—do not pick them up. Leave the dead the flowers.
Let the dead feel the petals drop, smell the rotting stems. Let them remember
that decay is not shameful but honorable. Joining the billion pieces of earth
is their duty.
Do
not speak to the dead of what they once were—alive and whole. Do not speak to
them about the grass and trees and living things. Do not even speak of their
linear chord of the circle of life. As if they have any part of the living.
Speak
to them of warm earth, moldered leaves, sentinel stone. Shriveled stamen. Bowed
stems. Forgotten flowers who find comfort in the melting. Let the life-leaching
water soak past the living grass, into the soil. Let it soothe the desiccated,
flaking lips of the dead.
Do
not take the flowers from the graves. They are for the dead. To remind them who
they are. And that they are not alone.
Let
the dead be buried by the dead.
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