10-11-2019, 05:32 PM
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His flowers have begun to wilt by now.
The tombstone might appreciate being able to breathe this week. He figures they’ve got plenty of flowers up in heaven, anyways, but wouldn’t they be a little sweeter coming up from Earth? Though they are tainted by his smell--Cecil would always sneeze when he wore a certain kind of cologne, and while he claimed he was allergic to the scent, Josef thinks he did it out of spite. He’s used to the chemical stench, but his husband had been a farmer, too used to the fresh air of the countryside to ever truly become accustomed to it.
He knows somewhere along the way, he took a wrong turn, which wouldn’t have been an issue had he noticed this about an hour ago. Now he’s nowhere where he needs to be, clutching in one hand a bouquet that’s three days late, exhausted and out of breath. Oh, why did they bury him so far from home? Josef is getting old, old enough that it now takes two hours to make the trip instead of one, but he’ll be damned if that stops him. It’s been twenty years, and he’s never once missed this weekly trip.
Well, up until now--no! He’s just late, that’s all. He can regain his bearings here and try again tomorrow. Cecil will understand.
He’s heard of Flintlock Lodge, even made polite conversation with a few traders on their way to and from, but he was never interested in walking so far out to see what it was all about. He supposes that this must be where that fork in the road leads. He’s never bothered to find out, after all this time.
Now he sits on the front steps of the main building, quietly and pleasantly humming to himself as he rummages through his briefcase, looking to make room for these damn flowers. Better to have them all fall apart and rot inside rather than leave a petal trail all the way back to his old house.
His flowers have begun to wilt by now.
The tombstone might appreciate being able to breathe this week. He figures they’ve got plenty of flowers up in heaven, anyways, but wouldn’t they be a little sweeter coming up from Earth? Though they are tainted by his smell--Cecil would always sneeze when he wore a certain kind of cologne, and while he claimed he was allergic to the scent, Josef thinks he did it out of spite. He’s used to the chemical stench, but his husband had been a farmer, too used to the fresh air of the countryside to ever truly become accustomed to it.
He knows somewhere along the way, he took a wrong turn, which wouldn’t have been an issue had he noticed this about an hour ago. Now he’s nowhere where he needs to be, clutching in one hand a bouquet that’s three days late, exhausted and out of breath. Oh, why did they bury him so far from home? Josef is getting old, old enough that it now takes two hours to make the trip instead of one, but he’ll be damned if that stops him. It’s been twenty years, and he’s never once missed this weekly trip.
Well, up until now--no! He’s just late, that’s all. He can regain his bearings here and try again tomorrow. Cecil will understand.
He’s heard of Flintlock Lodge, even made polite conversation with a few traders on their way to and from, but he was never interested in walking so far out to see what it was all about. He supposes that this must be where that fork in the road leads. He’s never bothered to find out, after all this time.
Now he sits on the front steps of the main building, quietly and pleasantly humming to himself as he rummages through his briefcase, looking to make room for these damn flowers. Better to have them all fall apart and rot inside rather than leave a petal trail all the way back to his old house.
[sub]the artist formerly known as hal[/sub]
Hoot gives Hal’s body a hug