The River 1.0.1 (Revision)
This is the new opening to "The River" and replaces 1.0.
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Bright oranges and magentas bleeding into lavenders and indigos stained the edges of the low clouds perched over the Allegheny River as the sun disappeared behind Mt. Washington. Its breathtaking beauty reminded me of Monet, a fitting goodbye for Christopher, as if God himself marked his exit from the stage.
“Out, out, brief candle,” I whispered to the air. “Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Will got it right and this tale had just lost more of its meaning with Christopher’s hour ended.
Though the rain had stopped hours before, this close to the rivers, the moisture-saturated air clung to any exposed skin. Shivering, I tugged the zipper of my worn leather jacket a little higher, causing it to hug my curves. Shoved into my jacket pocket, my thumb traced endless abstract designs into the side of my lighter as I waited. The weight of the metal felt comfortable in my palm – solid, real. Sighing, I removed my hand and tapped a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds against my palm, sliding out a cigarette. Sticking to the wetness, the filter balanced precariously between my slightly parted lips. With a flick, I raised the lighter to my mouth and inhaled. The familiar burn of the tobacco scorched the back of my throat and drifted up filling my sinuses with a pleasant tickle.
The haunting notes of the Kyrie faded behind me, as the priests finished beseeching God for his mercy on the recently departed. Christopher actually deserved mercy, one of the few. Lifting my face to the clouds, the rose window of St. Stanislaus glinted catching the fading light one last time. The silence within the church spilled out enveloping the corner of 21st and Smallman as the mass ended. Slowly, exhaling through my nose, I relished the harsh, blunt, yet sweet scent of the tobacco blended with the puddles of rainwater. I hated funerals.
As mourners exited the church, it seemed as though the entire diocese had come to say good-bye to the young priest. Within the sea of black, Cerise’s mane of wavy platinum hair was easy to spot. Sorrow filled her honey-dipped eyes. Catching her gaze, Cerise nodded in acknowledgement and turned to hug the elderly priest at the bottom of the steps. As they drew apart, Father Stephen patted her hand gently and bobbed his head when he saw me. I waved, but remained leaning against the building. Before joining me, Cerise made one final comment as he handed her a package wrapped in brown paper.
“You should have stayed, Olivia,” Cerise admonished without any real force, “Stephen gave Christopher a lovely eulogy.”
I grunted as we began to walk down Smallman Street. “It must have been a short one,” a hard edge entered my voice, “he was only twenty-seven.” Such a frail light snuffed out, which left me in the dark without its warmth listening to the idiot’s meaningless fairy-tale.
“Please tell me, ma chère,” Cerise said her eyes narrowing as she studied my face, “that you are not quoting MacBeth in your head.”
Bollocks, caught again. My lips tugged into a smile against my will, as Cerise snickered. “You are so predictable,” she laughed, “and pretentious.”
© 2008 Elizabeth Mock
==
Bright oranges and magentas bleeding into lavenders and indigos stained the edges of the low clouds perched over the Allegheny River as the sun disappeared behind Mt. Washington. Its breathtaking beauty reminded me of Monet, a fitting goodbye for Christopher, as if God himself marked his exit from the stage.
“Out, out, brief candle,” I whispered to the air. “Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Will got it right and this tale had just lost more of its meaning with Christopher’s hour ended.
Though the rain had stopped hours before, this close to the rivers, the moisture-saturated air clung to any exposed skin. Shivering, I tugged the zipper of my worn leather jacket a little higher, causing it to hug my curves. Shoved into my jacket pocket, my thumb traced endless abstract designs into the side of my lighter as I waited. The weight of the metal felt comfortable in my palm – solid, real. Sighing, I removed my hand and tapped a crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds against my palm, sliding out a cigarette. Sticking to the wetness, the filter balanced precariously between my slightly parted lips. With a flick, I raised the lighter to my mouth and inhaled. The familiar burn of the tobacco scorched the back of my throat and drifted up filling my sinuses with a pleasant tickle.
The haunting notes of the Kyrie faded behind me, as the priests finished beseeching God for his mercy on the recently departed. Christopher actually deserved mercy, one of the few. Lifting my face to the clouds, the rose window of St. Stanislaus glinted catching the fading light one last time. The silence within the church spilled out enveloping the corner of 21st and Smallman as the mass ended. Slowly, exhaling through my nose, I relished the harsh, blunt, yet sweet scent of the tobacco blended with the puddles of rainwater. I hated funerals.
As mourners exited the church, it seemed as though the entire diocese had come to say good-bye to the young priest. Within the sea of black, Cerise’s mane of wavy platinum hair was easy to spot. Sorrow filled her honey-dipped eyes. Catching her gaze, Cerise nodded in acknowledgement and turned to hug the elderly priest at the bottom of the steps. As they drew apart, Father Stephen patted her hand gently and bobbed his head when he saw me. I waved, but remained leaning against the building. Before joining me, Cerise made one final comment as he handed her a package wrapped in brown paper.
“You should have stayed, Olivia,” Cerise admonished without any real force, “Stephen gave Christopher a lovely eulogy.”
I grunted as we began to walk down Smallman Street. “It must have been a short one,” a hard edge entered my voice, “he was only twenty-seven.” Such a frail light snuffed out, which left me in the dark without its warmth listening to the idiot’s meaningless fairy-tale.
“Please tell me, ma chère,” Cerise said her eyes narrowing as she studied my face, “that you are not quoting MacBeth in your head.”
Bollocks, caught again. My lips tugged into a smile against my will, as Cerise snickered. “You are so predictable,” she laughed, “and pretentious.”
© 2008 Elizabeth Mock
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