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Flash: loss


Sharing With You. By C A Middleton © 2017

 Some speculate that when you die you hang around for a while, because you are somehow suffering an irrational attachment to your body. Or you plod about the house because you unfulfilled plans. 

 But in my experience that simply isn’t true.

 If that was the case I wouldn’t have needed to catch a bus to my own funeral. I would have squeezed my ethereal frame into the coffin by my stiff, lifeless remains.

 The night I died was confusing to me. I went to sleep at around two in the morning, with the missus, Carol, snoring like a gentle clothes dryer full of rocks, and awoke to pandemonium.

 Carol screamed and cried for so long I wished for my eardrums back and then when returned to my head I would wish them to burst. 

I sat up to find out what the racket was all about and left my body behind, as if we had never been as one, so to speak. There was no pulling or pain involved. It slipped off like a fat suit.

 It frightened me at first. I screamed along with Carol. Both of us tearing off the roof. Each for the same reason: loss.

 My loss was the worst in my eyes. It ruined my dreams. I was on the editing stage of my saga. I had a book deal all signed and sealed. Launch was in a month. And then I had to go and spoil it all by doing something stupid like stopping breathing.

 So close.

 It was heartbreaking. Well, it would’ve been if my heart hadn’t already damn well given up.

I watched as the ambulance took my corpse away.

 I didn’t go. What would be the point? 

 Oh what fun it would be to watch some smug git dig through my bits.

 No thanks.

I waited in the living room, in the dark, with no tele’, until the boredom fuelled my annoyance.

After stomping through the front door, I stood in the garden, seething at the injustice of it all. Until I’d remembered that I’d forgotten my coat.

The realisation that I would never need a coat again destroyed the fury for a moment. 

I cannot for the life of me remember what I did with my ghostly gear, but stripping down to my swinging bits brought with it a sense of obstinate freedom.

‘Fuck you!’ I shouted as I danced about the garden like the bloke in Monty Python whose vow of silence was broken by Brian. ‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!’

From there I spent the night running around the village. 

I watched my Uncle Harold and Aunty Vera, paddles cracking, at it in rubber suits. Well, after sneaking into the dirty pair’s house, I watched, appalled, for about eight seconds, before sliding back out again, thanking the dark sky for my death. I would never be able to look them in the eyes again.

 I ran through the pub as they played a darts league match and tried to put them off their shots with silly faces.

 I failed, but it was fun.

 I hedge-hopped, sang as loud as I could in the graveyard, and even managed to bathe in the freezing river. Well, I’m certain it was freezing. I couldn’t feel a bloody thing, though it was grand to pretend I did. 

 I did all of the above without losing a breath. It was quite liberating. Until I remembered Carol and ran home to see how she was.

 By the time I got back, the rubber twins, Harold and Vera, were dressed like normal folk once more and were comforting the wife as best as they could. Uncle Harold didn’t sit once. I suppose his arse cheeks were still smarting, the dirty old git.

 I was only jealous, really. Each to their own, I say.

 Aunty Vera was a sweetie and made tea for Carol, while all the time cooing like a pigeon. It must have been a shock to Aunty. Going from using her hands on Harold’s buttocks to patting Carol in a gentle manner.

 Funny old world.

 For the next week I sat with Carol as much as I could. It saddened me to see how hard she’d taken it. It didn’t matter how many times I told her she should move on. She couldn’t hear me.

 We watched The Chase together, but every time a question came up that I could answer she sobbed like her chest was on fire.

 Then the day came for the funeral. She looked lovely. Carol always scrubbed up well. I was just pleased the bloody lid was nailed down. Didn’t want to be seeing my own face on a day like this. That would be too real, thank you very much.

 Lots of people turned up at the house. People I’d forgotten the names of. There was cousins and and ex-workmates, my agent and folk from the pub. It was quite touching really.

 Then they carried me out and climbed into cars. With not one space for me! I was left on the pavement while they all shuffled into seats. Bloody inconsiderate really. Seeing as it was my funeral! 

I watched them slowly trundle off, huffed and told them to ‘Piss off then!’ 

 Not being able to ring a taxi, I slouched to the bus-stop to wait for the number eleven.

 Mrs Jackson was already there, with her wheelie bag. She didn’t say much as I arrived. For obvious reasons. Though she never liked me anyway. She caught me stealing her gooseberries when I was a kid. She gave my ear a right rattle back then. Bless her.

 ‘You dead too?’ She asked, scaring me witless.

 ‘Erm…’ I replied.

 ‘Bloody typical,’ she moaned. ‘My first day out of that aching sack of a body and I have to share it with you.’

 As we followed the living onto the growling bus, I came to the conclusion Death had a cruel sense of humour.

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About Chris42

I am a liar! A maker-uper of stories! If this was the 16 (c) I'd be burned as a witch. Fank goodness it is not, eh?! I have four children: two wonderful girls, a fantastic lad and Leeds United. I have no strict genre. I write children's poetry and stories, to edgy, stronger themes. Up until now I have stored them for my own and my family's viewing. Last year i thought bugger it and starred in several short films. One, Playground, which is on the BBC Film Network, used the monologue that I wrote for the audition. You should've seen the face of the receptionist, of the Manchester hotel, where the audition was being held, as I turned up dressed as the psychopath, Gordon. It got the desired effect! I then moved up to Cumbria and wrote and appeared in several live performances on stage. 2012. A local artist, Kayleigh Richardson, commissioned me to write a poem for her to paint a representation. I sent her, The Rise of the Robot Monkey Army. Kayleigh painted a fantastic piece that blew my mind! From that we are collaborating on the Jacob Bear series of stories. Oh and Two's Company is to published, along with seventeen other Sci Fi short stories as part of a collection. Not a bad start to the, so called, last year of the Earth. Now is the time to show the rest of you. I take my themes wherever i see them, whether in reality or dream-world. I hope you enjoy. If not tell me why. If so tell me why. Many thanks and be safe. So far I have published: Jacob Bear's first Christmas,https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B007GK872A (UK) http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007GK872A (USA) Jacob Bear Goes to School https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B007JD3OKY (UK) http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007JD3OKY (USA Jacob's First Words https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B007VZWPSC (UK) & http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007VZWPSC (USA) Space Here https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B007H96M90 (UK) &http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007H96M90#reader_B007H96M90 The Rise of the Sponge Cake Moon https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B007WWZ16M (UK) & http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007WWZ16M (USA) © Madstoffa, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

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© C.p.Singleton, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Don't make me have to take the shirt off your whipped back if you break the rules! I will you know! Us writing folk work hard to make rubbish up for you to enjoy, so don't abuse or you lose! Tha's right!

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