The Man in the Black Suit
We gathered together in our plain, small-town church for the funeral of my friend, Eric. We had to wait in a hall outside the room where Eric was lying in his coffin for some time, waiting for the room to open. Almost the whole town stood in the hall. I saw my neighbor, Mr. Crandle, leaning up against the wall, taking his dusty cowboy hat off to swat some manure off of his boot. Mr. Jackson, the town mechanic and bartender at the High Mountain Tavern and Sport Shop, was talking in whispered tones to his short, plump wife. I began to wonder if Mr. Jackson owned any other clothes besides the stained, blue overalls that he wore all of the time. The mayor, Bob "The Bobber" Thompson, was the best dressed of them all in his faded, brown, pin-striped suit. I began to wonder why he was known to all as "The Bobber." As I probed deeper into this question, I was awakened from my thoughts by the scuffling of feet and saw everyone entering the room. I stood outside for a long time, not wanting to see Eric in his final resting place, wanting to remember him alive.
As I entered the small, cramped room, some were trying to sing the hymn, "Father in Heaven, We Do Believe," while most wept, catching a final view of my friend before the oak coffin was closed and his earthly life was officially over. I was standing in the crowd, looking at Eric. He looked so peaceful, as if he was just sleeping and would wake up at any moment. The makeup on his face disturbed me. His skin was a bright peach color, his cheeks were pink, and his lips were full and red. He did not look like my friend, but like some sort of dead mime. His small, unmistakable smile eased my apprehensions, however, and the program went on.
Suddenly, the crowd seemed to part in slow motion and I saw the man in the black suit standing before the coffin. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and yet he seemed somehow to be much older. Perhaps it was his dark eyes that seemed to sink into his pale face or his thin frame that seemed so frail. His hair looked the same as the first day I met him, combed sideways as if his mother still did it for him.
What are the thoughts that go through the minds of those who near death? These are the questions at the heart of A Clean, Well-Lighted Place written by Ernest Hemmingway and Katherine Porter's The Jilting Of Granny Weatherall.
A 19-year old female from Harford County, Maryland, narrated the story of Black Aggie, the urban legend of an overnight stay in a cemetery. She grew up Christian, and still lives in one of the more rural areas of Maryland with her younger sister and parents, who own and work at an electrical contracting business. Accustomed to hearing many ghost stories and urban legends, she first heard the story of Black Aggie during a middle school slumber party. Late one Saturday night over pizza in our Hagerstown dorm, she was more than willing to share her favorite urban legend with me.
Guess what? I was right about the air. A few days later, my father said he felt really hot. Over the next few days, black spots and boils started appearing all over my father’s body. I knew that he was soon going to die. As he lay on his deathbed, he told me, “John, once I die, the officials are going to board the house up. I don’t know...
Ambrose Bierce triumphantly created a story that readers perceive to be manipulating It leaves the reader to rehash the entire story once complete. It is at this point where the reader may realize the dynamic of Ambrose Bierce’s “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” in regards to the changes in shifts in perspective as well as the shifts in time the story undertakes. As readers reconsider the story, they are allotted the opportunity to decide for themselves what exactly was happening to Peyton Farquhar, moments before his death. Once readers have done so, they can truly appreciate Bierce’s grim story as a whole, manipulating as it may be.
At the old age of 90 years old, being on my death bed, I have a story that needs to be addressed desperately before I pass. My story took place almost 80 years ago in 1935, when I was 15 years old in the woods behind my house, only a year after my sister was brutally killed. I will leave my writings on my bedside, as for when I pass someone is bound to read it. Being believed isn’t my concern, only that my story is known by someone, anyone, and that I can get some type of release before I pass.
I read it over the long hours of one night, unable to put it down, until suddenly the light of the sunrise penetrated my blinds. As I closed the book with a satisfied smile, tears streamed down my face until the title of the book became one big blur. Mitch Albom's The Five People You Meet in Heaven had sparked a much-needed emotional reformation inside my heart. It had quenched my thirsty body with a hope and comfort I had been seeking for the longest time.
“Romero’s shirt,” is a story about a man –the protagonist, who takes pride in his work and the possessions he has acquired through his hard work. Romero is confined by his hard work and the need to provide for his family. While washing his car, Romero is approached by a man of distinct character, such as Romero before he came to El Paso. Thrown by the man’s personality, Romero lets his guard down and gives the man a small odd job. When the job is done Romero takes a nap and quickly realizes he left his favorite shirt outside. Unable to find his shirt, Romero automatically assumes that the old man has taken advantage of him by taking his food, money and his shirt. This in return leaves Romero feeling disappointed and taken advantage of.
In this article “ The Old Man isn’t There Anymore” Kellie Schmitt writes about the people she lives with crying in the hallway and when she asks what happened she is told that the old man is gone. This starts the big ordeal of a Chinese funeral that Schmitt learns she knows nothing about. Schmitt confuses the reader in the beginning of the story, as well as pulling in the reader's emotions, and finishes with a twist.
Let’s examine the short story of “Killings” by Andre Dubus. The story begins on a warm August day with the burial of Matt and Ruth Fowler’s youngest son Frank. Frank was only twenty-one: “twenty-one years, eight months, and four days” (Dubus, “Killings” 107). Attending the funeral were Matt, his wife Ruth, their eldest son Steve, his wife, their middle daughter Cathleen and her husband. Frank was buried in a cemetery on a hill in Massachusetts overlooking the Merrimack. Across from the cemetery is an “apple orchard with symmetrically planted trees going up a hill” (107), a symbol of how nice and serene the cemetery actually is and the peace Frank now has. Matt’s family is extremely distraught over the murder of their youngest son/brother, so much to make comments of wanting to kill the killer themselves, “I should kill him” (107), stated the oldest son Steve, while walking from the grave site along side his father Matt. This comment is considered a fore-shadow to what is to come in the thought process of the family members.
Through his poem, Ogden recites the tale of a Hangman who emotionlessly slaughtered an entire town. At first, they watched on “[out] of respect for his Hangman’s cloak”. Soon, as he took the life of another to “test the rope when the rope is new”, the village learned to part way “[out] of the fear of his Hangman’s cloak”. The opportunity presented itself time and time again, but only one person spoke against the murderer and was executed for doing so. The rest gave
The hikers never knew the two indigenous people, except for what they wore that night, what booze they drank, and what side they slept on. And those simple details were just enough to make the dead bodies Human: capable of joking, singing, fighting, and eating. So the sudden termination of these lives confused the hikers, for they weren’t sure what they should feel about the death of two strangers. The hikers stared and stared at the bodies, perhaps feeling sadness for the friends, parents, and lovers of these men, but feeling only emptiness for the men themselves. They were just two more anonymous faces, frozen in their final dreams and nothing more than dead.
“…so distinctly black, black as only coffins can be-it conjures up hush-hush criminal adventures in the rippling night and, even more, death itself: the bier, the obscure obsequies, the final, silent journey.”(Mann 2004 pp. 36)
He brushes a hand across the tombstone, his fingertips tingling upon the engraved lettering. The name. The epitaph, banal and meaningless. The dates of birth and death--dates too close together for comfort, dates that stir murmurs in passersby. How tragic. Poor boy, to die so young. Those who had cared to know him never said so, only the strangers.
At last I arrived, unmolested except for the rain, at the hefty decaying doors of the church. I pushed the door and it obediently opened, then I slid inside closing it surreptitiously behind me. No point in alerting others to my presence. As I turned my shoulder, my gaze was held by the magnificence of the architecture. It never fails to move me. My eyes begin by looking at the ceiling, and then they roam from side to side and finally along the walls drinking in the beauty of the stained glass windows which glowed in the candle light, finally coming to rest on the altar. I slipped into the nearest pew with the intention of saying a few prayers when I noticed him. His eyes were fixated upon me. I stared at the floor, but it was too late, because I was already aware that he wasn’t one of the priests, his clothes were all wrong and his face! It seemed lifeless. I felt so heavy. My eyes didn’t want to obey me. Neither did my legs. Too late I realised the danger! Mesmerised, I fell asleep.
Surrounded by a foggy white film, I tried to adjust my vision to see. Anything familiar would appease me at this point. Nonetheless, I did not see a thing. Am I dead?" I thought to myself. Can this possibly be what the afterlife is like? I began to feel very anxious. The dense mist totally consumed my body and mind. This was not what I planned for myself. My life was supposed to be filled with an array of happiness, love, wonderful sights, and the joy of watching my children grow. Where is my sanctuary? Last thing I remember was looking out of my window and seeing the serene sky. At the time, I assumed I would be joining those that I love so deeply. My assumption was dismissed by a glimmer of reflection on my life up to this point.