# Literary Maneuvers September 2018: "The Funeral"



## bdcharles (Aug 31, 2018)

*The Funeral*
September 2018​ 
*
Introduction*

Welcome one and all. This month's prompt, as voted for by you, is "The Funeral", for which you are to write a maximum of 650 words of fiction. Pick your own  title, write about whatever you  want, in whatever prose    style and interpreted as you see fit, as  long as it's related in some way to  the prompt. You decide the best  way in which to dazzle your readers - and the judges.

Speaking of which, the judges this month are *velo*, *SueC *and *NotMe*.  If you wish to join this month's secret cabal of judges (max of 4), please sign up for judging by PM or in  the coffee shop. If you want  to judge   and I left you out, send me  your scores by the     deadline.  If you're   listed here and don't wish  to judge, let me know at      once (please).

If you win, you'll get a badge  pinned to your profile plus a      month’s access   to Friends of Writing Forums (FoWF) where you’ll  have access to hidden forums and use      of the   chat room. Pretty neat, eh?

All entries that wish to retain their first rights should post in the *LM Workshop Thread**.*

All Judges scores will be PMed to* bdcharles*

All anonymous entries will be PMed to* bdcharles*. If I am judging, send 'em to Harper J. Cole.

Lastly, why not check out this ancient text on how to best approach this task.


*Rules*



*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum. 
*No Poetry!*         Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for     your     poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good     competition  over    there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able     to understand  your    work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges. Play the prose-poem game at your own risk. 
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there. 
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored. 
*Only one entry per member.* 
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.*         If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word   is     the   standard for checking this. If you are unsure of the word    count    and   don't have Word, please send your story to me and I'll    check it    for you. 


*There are a few ways to post your entry:*



If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread. 
You can opt to have your entry posted in* the Workshop *which         is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your  story       there  if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you  wish  to      have the  story published one day. Note: If you do post  it in  the      workshop thread,  you must post a link to it here in  this  thread      otherwise your story may  not be counted. 
You   may post      your story anonymously.  To do so, send your story to  the  host of  the     competition. If you wish to  have us post it in  the  workshop  thread   then   say so. Your name will be  revealed upon  the  release of  the   score. 

Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a         review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score. Please         refrain from 'like'-ing or 'lol'-ing an entry until the scores  are        posted.

Judges: In the tradition of LM competitions of yore, if you could send         the scores one week after deadline it will ensure a timely release    of      scores and minimize the overall implementation of  porkforking.    Please     see the *Judging Guidelines* if you have questions. Following the suggested formatting will be much appreciated, too. 

*This competition will close on:*Saturday, the 15th September at 11:59:59 PM, BST, on the dot.​
Scores would be appreciated by the last day of the current month, at the latest, pretty please, cherry on top, mmm?

Click here for the current time.


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## Candervalle (Sep 14, 2018)

Art in the Park
(646 words)​
By his 43rd birthday, Arthur Weckel had failed at being an engineer, a mathematician, a writer, a husband, and pretty much everything in between. And that only was only accounting for the previous ten years. For all of his life, he had bumbled about, too afraid to fully commit to just one passion or craft for fear that he would lose out on all the other ones out there. This led to many great beginnings and disappointing ends. 

Then one day after his wife had left him, Arthur found himself sitting at his favorite bar. He and that bar shared a kinship of sorts. They were always on the verge of collapsing. He was mulling over how he would spend the next week of hell when he noticed an ad for a free community painting workshop. It promised free snacks and beverages. Having not eaten in days, Arthur decided to check it out. From the moment the brush hit the canvas, it was as if the universe unlocked itself for him. Arthur Weckel had found his passion. Although success finally found him, he became consumed by madness and prolific drug use. If anyone liked the needle, it was Arthur. It calmed his racing mind and put order to his feverish thoughts.

In just a few short years, he came to be known by many as one of the most influential painters of the 21st century. He remained enigmatic and aloof, but that only intrigued people further. Despite his odd behavior, there were a select few who could call him Art. In their eyes, he was always agonizing over not being able to make “good” art, even though his paintings went for hundreds of thousands of dollars. As an artist, that’s not easy to accomplish, especially while you’re still alive. His friends couldn’t understand what tormented him so.

In the gloom of an abnormally long autumn, Arthur loaded his needle just a little too full and died while sitting on the toilet. He left behind no family, but he did leave behind a will addressed to the only one he knew would do anything for money, his lawyer. The will left specific instructions for his lawyer as well as a considerable sum of money and pieces of art if only he would follow the will to the letter.Not being one to back away from a legal challenge, the lawyer got to work. 

A week later, Arthur’s friends were beginning to worry. Had he not thought of them? Did he not leave any funerary plans behind? They were in talks about putting together their own private service for their friend when they each received a letter, hand delivered by a nervous lawyer. The letter was the same for each recipient. They were all to meet in Rose Square at precisely noon one week from that day. The instructions didn’t come as a surprise to any of them, as Rose Square was known to be a popular scene for up and coming artists, and it happened to be the place where Arthur sold his first painting. 

On a particularly cold Sunday, Arthur’s closest friends convened at Rose Square as instructed. The square, usually packed with performers and observers, was empty due to the harshness of the weather. As they stood huddled together, they conversed as to what Arthur had planned. It was silent in the square, except for the distant sound of a helicopter passing over head. One of the friends started the suggestion of getting indoors when he was interrupted by the naked body of Arthur Weckel striking the pavement at terminal velocity. A rainbow of paint erupted from the fractured corpse. 

The friends stared in disbelief for a few moments as paint began to spread across the ground in a rather beautiful pattern. One of them cleared his throat and said, “Well, that’s Art for you.”


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## H.Brown (Sep 14, 2018)

Final Goodbye. (650)

Slipping into the back of the church, my rainbow trainers squeak against wooden floorboards. Cringing I hide behind a stone pillar as heads turn towards me. I'm not welcome here, I know that. But I couldn't help myself.


"It's all your fault!" Thomas' mum screamed at me in the white hallway of the hospital. "If it wasn't for you, he'd still be here." Her anger so righteous I'd shrunk into the wall outside his room, rubbing the sky blue plaster of my cast.


The dull drone of the vicar's voice brings me back to the now, as he lists all Thomas' achievements in his brief life, barely reaching me at the back. I still don't believe he's dead. I still hear his michievious voice whisper in my ear; "So what crazy stunt we doing next Trouble?" 


It's so clear my head snaps around, searching the empty space behind me, as dissapointment rolls through my chest again. Turning back to the front of the church my gaze stares at the dark brown coffin, listening to the heartbroken sobs of his family as silent tears trickle down my cheeks. 


His mum was right, all of this was my fault. If I hadn't befriended Thomas in infants, he wouldn't have been at the pier that night, he never would have confronted the guy hurting me and he wouldn't have been pushed into the churning waves below. I've told myself this many times since then.


But I don't regret a single second I realise. Not seeing his smile light up a room, or feel his fingers tugging my long lose curls as I try to pin them behind my ears. Or even looking into his eyes as they shine with trouble. I'm going to miss his sense of fun and adventure, my heart stutters as I realise my sleeping bestfriend will never wake up.


I'm lost in my well of dispair when I feel it!


Feather light at first, fingers whisper over my now short curls, getting stronger as they move to my shoulders, then they're jabbing my in the back as I shift against the wooden pew.


"What's wrong Loubie-lou?" Thomas deep voice reverberates through my ear.


"You left me." I sob not glancing behind me as he tugs at a curl.


"I'd never leave you trouble-maker." He jokes as more of my tears fall, I know he's not there. My therapist says it's misplaced grief that I imagine him still alive and by my side. It's why I came here today, everyone thinks seeing his funeral will help me move on.


"You did though dipshit." I whisper closing my eyes and concentrating on the feel of his ghostly fingers dancing up the back of my neck making me shudder.


"Never." He chuckles and I swear my hair moves with his breath. "I'm right here."


"You shouldn't have come." 


"Nothing would have stopped me trouble, I had to save you." His voice is so earnest that I'm crying again.


"I need you here with me, not there," I nod towards the coffin, "or in the ground." My heart breaks just thinking about him laying alone in the earth.


"I'll always be right beside you stupid." He states.


Sighing I turn trying to catch a glimpse of his face, to keep him with me, but I'm alone. Sitting here in the shadows. I hear the movement of fabric rustling as the moarners stand. 


Shaking I move to the wooden doors pausing once to glance back at his coffin, I whisper my final goodbye before stepping out into the harsh winter sunlight.


"So what now trouble?" Thomas asks in my head.


"I move on." I whisper streightening my back before striding through the iron gates. I don't look back but finally I smile as my imaginary Thomas bumps my shoulder one last time.


"Take care Loubie-lou." He whispers on the wind as I walk away.


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## Ibb (Sep 15, 2018)

*Dead Man Talking / 650 Words*

“I’m dead?”
[FONT=&Verdana]    
[/FONT]“You’re dead.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“Shit!”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“It’s a tough time for most people.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“How dead am I?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]The bearer of the news checked a stream of digits blazing across his smartwatch. “Right now you’re wavering between Totally and Very.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]Our hero, DeadMan, rubbed his forehead. “Jesus.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“That’s for VIP members only, I’m afraid.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“No, I mean―what?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
“We need to begin your funeral.” [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Oh my god.”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“You’re a Christian?”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“I don’t know.”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Agnostic?”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“I don’t [/FONT]_know_[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana].”
[FONT=&Verdana]
The bearer of the news poked something into his smartwatch looking suspiciously like a sentence.[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“What did you write?”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Your order.”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“I said I ‘[/FONT]_don’t know!_[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]’”
[FONT=&Verdana]
“You’ve opted into cremation followed by a scattering of the ashes.”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
DeadMan blanched. “A scattering of―? But I’m not actually―! Whose [/FONT]_body_[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]―?”   
[FONT=&Verdana]
The bearer of the news lifted his hand: “Let us worry about that.” [/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“How long have I been dead?”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Indeterminable at this time.”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
Another blanch: “[/FONT]_Indeterminable_[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
“It’s a multi-tiered process. The entirety of the death needs to be considered. The decomposition of the flesh. The dissolution of the spirit. Possibly the erasure of the soul.”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“The [/FONT]_soul_[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
“Yezzur. But the jury’s still out on that one.”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
Having previously rubbed his forehead, DeadMan consulted his inner thesaurus, and this time kneaded his brows: “How did I die?”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
The bearer of the news crossed his legs. “That depends. Would you say you were dead before or after you killed yourself?”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“[/FONT]_What?_[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]”
[FONT=&Verdana]
“You’re a death by suicide.”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
“A death by—? I killed my—? No. [/FONT]_No!_[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]”
[FONT=&Verdana]
            [/FONT]    [/FONT]The bearer of the news, not always understanding human grief, and having once observed and enjoyed the gesticulations of a gameshow TV host right before plucking out his afterspirit from a convulsing and drug-overdosing corpse, snapped his fingers and pointed his index. “[/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]_Yes_[FONT=&Verdana].”
[FONT=&Verdana]
            [/FONT]    [/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“Shut the FUCK up!”
[FONT=&Verdana]
            [/FONT]    [/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“Wow.” The bearer of the news mumbled under his breath: “Try to HELP a guy…”
[FONT=&Verdana]
            [/FONT]    [/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“With—? And what—? How did I…?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
            [/FONT]    [/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“Shotgun shell.” The bearer of the news pressed a finger into his mouth, poking the palate. “Auight… Auight ere,” making an obscene gesture involving sound effects and a dramatically whipped neck that caused DeadMan’s mouth to drop. Then he removed his finger. “Just like that.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
            [/FONT]    [/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“JESUS CHRIST!”
[FONT=&Verdana]
            [/FONT]    [/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]“Think more Hemingway.” The bearer of the news checked his notes. “Winchester, to be precise.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
            [/FONT]    [/FONT][FONT=&Verdana]In despair, DeadMan spoke rhetorically. “Why would I kill myself…?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]The bearer of the news answered anyway. “Beats me.” Then, “So have you thought about the funeral?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“What [/FONT]_funeral_[FONT=&Verdana]?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
“This one―”[/FONT]
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]The bearer of the news swiped his smartwatch, eliciting a satisfying swoosh that disrupted the black chasm of nothingness surrounding them, pulling skylines, city streets, grey clouds, and seated mourners suddenly into view. When the imagery had settled, he consulted his smartscreen. “You have a few minutes left.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]DeadMan started. “To do what?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“That’s up to you.” Then added: “A one-time courtesy.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]DeadMan looked around. The birds were chirping. The city teeming. He approached one of the bereaved and swept his hand through her feathered cap, causing her to look over her shoulder and ask the person behind her if he’d said something. Up ahead, at the end of the long aisle, was a closed casket. He stood before it and observed the framed photograph, not recognizing the appearance of the man before him. He looked at the casket itself. 
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“Is there even anything in there?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“Iunno.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“How much longer do I have?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]The bearer of the news checked his smartwatch. “Not much.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]DeadMan nodded. “Let’s go.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]It was the news-bearer’s turn to start. “For real?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“Before I can’t handle it.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“Ah.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“I don’t want to die.”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]The news-bearer nodded. “That’s life for ya.” Then, “You ready?”
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]DeadMan turned to the crowd. He was already forgetting who was who. He swept out his hand, eliciting in their world a sudden gust that caused them to hold their caps and fold their arms. Little details seemed all too beautiful at once. 
[FONT=&Verdana]
    [/FONT]“Okay,” he said. “I’m read―”


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## Theglasshouse (Sep 15, 2018)

*No One's Funeral*

https://www.writingforums.com/threa...ure-Entries-The-Funeral?p=2183259#post2183259


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