Thread: 7/7/7 | My Life as a Dead Body

My Life as a Dead Body- You've just been killed. Most would say this is the end of your life, sure, but what next? In no more than 500 words, tell us about your life within the confines of the chalk outline.

Deadline for all submissions is Friday, July 20th, 2007. And as always, everyone is welcome to participate. (Note: Judges may participate, but their entries will not be scored.) Please post entries in this thread only.

Good luck, writers!

Your judges for this round:
Hawke
Chris Miller
Eggo

Thank you to speakerphone2 for the topic of this LM Challenge.

Off Topic:

This was a strange one.

Life (Or Death) as I See it from Under a Piano

Wow... so this is what it's like to be dead: smelly linens and a piano.

What happened? Where did I go wrong? I was snacking on my hoagie, when that damned piano came down on me.

Choking on a hoagie is not the way to die.

What? What is this? Is this blood? God... I've been stabbed! I've been stabbed!

Geesh, I'm getting an erection. This is terrible. Think of something, man.... "Two priests, a rabbi, and a hot blond walk into a..." No, no... This isn't working.

I'm being moved! Christ, this is horrid. I'm being thrown in a van.

"Barton and Bros. Crematorium"

Oh, lord.

This is the end... wait... already is, isn't it?

"There is a certain finesse to being dead, and not everyone can pull it off. And when the time comes, vis-à-vis with the prince of peace, you are supposed to roll a cigarillo(even if your hands are of ectoplasm) and ask when you are supposed to wield your flaming sword. If the time is sooner than you think and you must terminate your courtship of that will-o'-the-wisp beauty with the pearl skin and milky locks, to choke in surprise and collapse is generally regarded as one of the major ways to dishonor a host.

This the manner of the gentleman. The Path of Eight Folds to Dissuade The Wrinkling of an Undershirt. The Way of Social En-heighten-ment. In the Tao Te Ching it is said, manage a great nation as you would cook a delicate cat; and so you must handle gentlemanism the way you would cook a delicate kitten, though a gentleman does not eat undeveloped and barbaric meats.

The Tao Te Ching also makes claim:

'The sage does not distinguish between himself and the world;
The needs of other people are as his own.'

Gentlemen are like mother robins or blue-chested jays; they chew complexities into a fine porridge and perserve the flavor as best they can for their chicks. In this they are worldly, and so of the highest standing.

The messiness of death is irrelevant to presentation as long as you pass on the finesse; it is an example to the youth. If the gentleman is stabbed in the chest, the crimson should become sanguine; and if you are nimble with a handkerchief you may dab the blood to form a scarlet carnation on your breast. If the blade shatters the lenses of your breast-pocket spectacles, the trained gentleman can assemble the fragments of glass into a beautiful swan miniature; the Chinese are certainly fond of such things. Properly applied, blood can form an excellent(if temporary) coat of paint.

It is the highest manner of praise, while dying, to hand the sanguine glass swan to a woman of your choosing.

In ways dying is not unlike the way of the samurai so beloved of the Chinese. I am aware that upon the loss of a master, the failed samurai(known as a 'robin') is no longer allowed to wear his forearm hanging from the lower region of his formal jacket. So too is it imperative that a dishonored gentleman must cast his monocle into the sea, where only the most clever and gentleman-y of fish may assemble a sanguine glass swan; and so too must he always loosen the uppermost button of his formal jacket.

If you have failed in manners, this is necessary to a preserve your essence into the next life, or you become a zombie."

- On Death, Speech, pg. 1213: "The Encyclopedia Of Failed Attempts To Convert Chinese Barbarians To Gentlemanism In The Year Of Our Lord 2008: From On to Op"

Author's Note:

Gentlemen overuse semi-colons. It's in the handbook.

As I open my eyes to awaken, I think to myself “holy crap, what in the fuck was that?”. There’s a weird haze around me as I try to see what is going on in this sudden state of confusion. My eyes can’t seem to focus properly but as things begin to sharpen, I can see the outline of the letters “FORD” come into view through the smoke. Then I begin to notice the teeth mixed among the bits of broken glass and plastic. The shock of that causes me to jump to my feet and that’s when I notice that the haze was caused by a broken radiator. The gushing green water is running down and boiling on the red-hot exhaust of my motorbike. “oh man, something is wrong here in a really bad way, if that’s my bike then how am I standing?, the thoughts were hard to fathom, and even more then I wanted to believe. That’s when the surreality of the event hits me “you stupid piece of shit, you just came around that turn too fast and face- planted your dumb ass into a god damn car!”.

It was then that I realized I was dead, pissed off, but dead none the less. So here it is, death. The thing that we spend our whole lives trying our best to avoid, and now I get to experience it in all its glory. Well let’s take stock of it all. I can see, but I can’t smell the stench of the boiling fluid. I can stand but I can’t feel any pain. It’s odd but not too bad.

That’s when I begin to walk around and try to take in what all just happened. There’s the steam, the mix of broken glass and teeth lying amongst the blood and skid marks, then I see myself. At least I think what used to be me. OK, now it’s bad, but I can’t make myself not look. I’ve got that same morbid feeling as when I was alive. You know, that sick curiosity that makes us look at a bad car wreck as we drive by. We hope for the best for our fellow mankind, and yet we have that primal desire to see blood at the same time. Plus, this is me we’re talking about here, I’ve just got to know what the hell happen.

Upon closer inspection my worse fears are confirmed, it’s me all right. Except I am ruined, as in no more good to anybody, just a hunk of twisted and torn flesh with broken bones protruding through my skin. Standing there and looking at myself all crumpled up into the front of the car, I noticed I must not be dead yet, at least not by the medical definition of it. Through a large gash in what was my neck at one time, I notice the weak pulsations of my heart pumping out the remaining little bit of my blood, and then, it stops.

Author's Note:

My first attempt at LM, didn't know if this can even be accepted. I wrote this in a "good mood" so really, I can't be blamed. Hope it isn't too declasse.

I'm a cold gray, haggard
hagging and huffing to nothing,
snorted my chemicals, sniffed me light
cut that edge, sliced that white.

Dazzled at my artificial rain bow, a myriad
of dying lights flash like nothing,
a muzzle flash or paper in a dump
or the very tip of my cigarello,
laced with all kinds of kindness
smack and crack were yesterday.

Stop that shit, I'll never say
but once past death,
my saying changed-
Wash your eyes.

My money packed in classic
plastic met my dough marked with
joe, filled my nose to heaven's lowest dose
Over none, a bridge of gold
A royce to the stars, a cramp of oath.

Tidal surges calm in time, pain
and redness waste my dime,

Every time I ask of god a pinpoint
of wisdom rhymed,
I kill my inner child's mind with
toxic snow, shadowed blind

Such a noble ivory vice,
a proven method of deathing mice
mauling around behind your eyes
it's no gambit, eight ball dice
strike like mountain ranges flown
across it's spidered edges, sharp to
pierced wood, light to cover the night
with energized rant, religion smelled
and smelled like a rosy goddess.

A fiery sensation to moot your thoughts,
mute your image wrought
of roughness to kill, to capture
everything from sun to plundered

Like no other scent it feels, ruled
with effect by no senate appeals
my friend through ashen, dusty nights
connoisseur of finer rights
like suicide that gives us pleasure
No reason vies, as to whether
it can ever be governed, nature's
silent enough as is.

One annotation, a slight wriggle
However can I die of riddle
A riddle fierce, came to tame
Ebony's no match, like the water thames
global massive, jeez its passive
as if pigs could fly, disco acid
not even close,
my sorrow's engagement knows no fashion

Why cry then smile, if other than pain
I've found a way to remember the lame, the
meek and torrid, of any race
men trodden rebel their graceless empire,
this world's smoking a holy fire.

Had blood living outside my skin
sons to kiss, daughters to adore
wife to support, sad to say the
police report, covered in ink with
my name in bold,
said by time I'd grown cold
that my cause to pass
was forged by the dead.

I cry black, a funeral sighted
by my camel's stretching lashes,
whipping and choking,
opening my lungs for
their final, unheard scream when I know
my sadly loving lover's passed
on to another, I've willed myself
alone and bottled.

A cure too far, taken from its context
mother, I say sorry as only I can
I'm gone forever,
forced a man.

Seduced by the weaker of my sins
I pass along my diligence
to the next unwilling soul singing
their respective death,
may their virtue pass the test.

Death After Life

Beyond the valley, we witnessed an extraordinary accident, one of which would have been avoided had I listened to my parents.On the rocky platform, the pathologists bended down with subtlety and with the utmost of care and precision, they carried my body onto what seems to be a stretcher. I'm thrown into a corpse filled automobile avoided by the investigators due to the severity of the injuries. They made gestures suggesting a foul smell present. Of all the corpses, I had the best view overlooking the entire vastness and sunset filled landscape of the valley. The red and orange hues of the sunset matched my face in view, however this view was unmatched to the valley overhangs.

We all arrived at the morgue, black suits in fashion. The true reality of the situation now embraced our lonely spirits. We witnessed the downfall of our families, friends, and distant cousins crying and consoling one another, they look at me filled from the crown to the toe top full of sorrowful tears. I wanted to feel strength, strong enough to move my body and show signs of life. I decided to retire my spirit into my state of peace while the pathologists tore my remaining flesh, I wanted to say "Ouch, that's sore, please stop!", but I felt no pain. My parents arrived several hours later and it was like they were enjoying shopping. They had to pick my casket, it was mahogany with gold embroidered lace.

They locked me in the casket, those cruel bastards! Finally, I witnessed the natural light once more for my funeral when they re-opened the casket. They actually adored me with kind words, gestures and tears of joy. To my utter shock and distaste, I discovered that I was getting cremated! After the church ceremony, the casket moved at the slowest, most irritable pace backwards. I tried to escape the casket but to no avail. My personal hell awaited me......inside a church!!! I arrived in the crucible inside the furnace. Remarkably, everything looked calm and peaceful, that was until they turned on the blast furnace! Flames engulfed my presence and shattered the mere existence my body once had.

Seven weeks endured until the end was in sight for my parents. Off the coast of Australia, beside the Great Barrier Reef my parents stood still on a hilltop. They looked inside one last time at me, then scattered my presence around the bay. Finally, my presence blew carelessly across the reef with my particles touching life: turtles, fish and plants. In a sudden instance of brilliance, I endured the magnificence of death. I felt myself arriving at a better place, a place which welcomes all spirits and souls. While my parents masked in the pleasure of the paradise of life itself, I was welcomed into the eternal paradise of continued life and existence known as Heaven.

Rainy Day Coffin - 496 words


I don’t know why they cry.

Yvette’s put weight on. Her middle looks like a black rubber ring. Bereavement isn’t agreeing with her. Allan’s being as patient as one can be with a wife who’s seen better days.

Millie, who led the procession down the aisle, is organising the mourners into a row along the graves edge, which if I didn’t know any better goes in order of obesity. She was my friend for thirty years and I never had the pleasure of telling her she’s a malingering bitch.

I never swore when I was alive, you know - but then I was a catholic. I’m an atheist now.

“The flowers look like a beautiful rainbow,” says Angel my youngest great granddaughter, the wind lifting her hair gently from her shoulder. Her cheeks are as pink as the roses on my shitty coffin.

Funny, neither of my children bothered with flowers on my birthday but today the grave looks like a fucking Chelsea Flower Show reject. Henry rang the florist a week ago and asked for something tasteful but cheap. They used my phone. Yvette was in my living room counting how many gold rings were worth selling.

If only they could see me. Apart from the laugh I’d get out of seeing Yvette pass out it would be fun to be younger than my own son. I’m 30 again. I have tits that would stop a clock. I was 82 when my heart gave out. Allan’s would give out now if he saw my weightless arse.

It’s August. They’re all sweating. Yvette’s make up is running in rivulets down her cleavage. I’m not hot. I’m cool. I’m smiling. At least I think I am. It’s hard to tell with air light muscles and feather smooth skin.

“Remember that poem,” says Allan to a sobbing Yvette.
“What poem?”
“You know….how does it go? Do not stand at my grave and weep…. I am not here, I do not sleep…..”
Yvette makes a sound into her fist that sounds like a belch.
“She’s not here, love,” whispers Allan. “She’s not here.”
Bollocks to that. I’m right behind you.

The coffin was cheap. Yvette and Henry ransacked my Rainy Day jar to pay for it. I saw them two days after I died on the kitchen floor. I’d been putting spare housekeeping money away to buy a new fridge.

Death is the truth you see. The truth.

Yvette is selfish. Allan is dying of cancer but doesn’t want to trouble her about it because he knows how much whisky she’ll drink. Millie is deceitful. Henry is spineless. And my little granddaughter Angel is as sweet and honest as a corpse. I loved them so in life, put up with their lies and their endless complaining. How much less I would have suffered if I’d told them what I thought.

The truth does indeed set you free. It’s a shame we have to wait for death to realise it.

Oh God! My mother is here!

This is not what my funeral is supposed to be like. Whenever I’d been morbid enough to imagine it, I’d think of countless beautiful women weeping while a video documenting my various adventures flashed across a giant television. I’d imagine someone with an amazing voice (read: James Earl Jones) reading unfinished poetry I’d written. I’d imagine a ceremony befitting a man of my seemingly unlimited potential.

What I have instead is a room full of distant family members checking their watches, looking outside to see if the rain is going to stop before they have to see me lowered into the cold earth. To be fair, I should have expected this; I’d been to a fair amount of funerals, after all. But no matter how many pointless ceremonies you go to, you never really believe you’ll be the reason for one.

The priest, a man I’ve never met, says things about me he wouldn’t know, even if they were true. It’s not really his fault, though. For my own part, I’d never believed in God, never subscribed to any religion. They say there are no atheists in the trenches, but when I stared my own death in the face (in the form of an on-coming truck, as it were) I felt no urge to repent or offer a prayer to an invisible deity. All I felt was a horrible sickness, as though all of my unfulfilled dreams were manifesting themselves as knots in my stomach. “If death isn’t a relief,” I remember thinking, “then what is?”

When you die, there’s supposed to be some finality. Your questions are supposed to be answered. Questions like “Is there a God?” and “What was the meaning of it all?” There’s supposed to be a white light leading to the open arms of your long-lost family members and friends. But in reality it wasn’t like that at all. There was no light, no answered questions, no family members. Just darkness, then the same world again but distant—like I was looking at it through the eyes of an insomniac. Just as invisible in death as I was in life, doomed to walk the earth alone for eternity,

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this isn’t all there is. Maybe the Catholics were right (in which case I’m eternally fucked anyway) and I’m in purgatory. Maybe my answers are coming.

Somehow, though, I doubt it. Life without connection, conscious unconsciousness, unanswered questions, existence without hope; these things, though I don't want to admit it to myself, sound like something I thought didn’t exist.

Maybe I'm in hell.

[422 words]

Off Topic:

I know, I know I'm judging, but couldn't resist. For fun only of course

"Plan Ahead to Be Dead"- word count be damned!

http://writingforums.com/showthread....218#post934218

It Could Happen (400 Words)

The car had come from nowhere. The screeching tires followed by the impact, then the slow motion spinning, the groaning twisting metal, shattering glass and the pain…and ohhh yes the pain!!!

In a lightning fast flash it was over.

“Damn…life is hell” was my last thought.

Slowly the fog lifted in my mind and the bright light softened. Where am I? Am I still in the car? Am I in a hospital?

Or…worse yet…am I dead?

As consciousness returned I noted the deceptively normal surroundings. Where am I? It looked like a golf shop…people pawing through the clubs, testing new putters on the indoor putting green, discussing the pros and cons of golf balls and paying up for a round of golf.

Wow…what is this? Where am I?

While these images whirled in my mind and I sought to make some sense of what was happening a nattily dressed golf pro…well he looked like a golf pro, looking to be in his late fifties, walked up and asked…”Can I help you”?

“No” I said…”actually yes…where am I? How did I get here”?

Smiling deceptively the golf pro said…”Welcome to hell, I am Lucifer…the devil himself”.

“Hell you say!” I said with increasing dread and panic creeping into my voice.

“The one and only…but don’t look so glum, it’s not really all that bad” said the devil. “I know how much you like golf…play a round and then let me know what you think”.

Incredulously I was led to an awaiting cart, loaded with all the best clubs, my favorite golf balls lined up in the rack and ready to be tee’d up. At the first tee the reality of the situation began to sink in. Teeing up I noticed the club didn’t quite feel right, the dimples on the ball seemed oddly shaped and my grip and stance felt uncomfortable.

What is this I thought?

Wiggling and waggling I finally drew the club back and the results were horrible. The slice that had plagued me forever was worse than ever, my distance (never good in any game) was shorter than normal and finally the hole was full of water hazards and sand traps…and yes I was in one of the biggest sand traps he had ever seen!

"Damn" I said, forgetting I was dead…"Life is HELL"

Standing off the tee, the devil smilingly said….”And HELL is life…really!”

Off Topic:

I never thought the commonest way to die would be a car accident. I don't think I'm ever going in a car again, lest I become on of these people!

Oh, & by the way... would I be permitted to submit?

I’m dead and Mike is holding the gun. I don’t know why I’m able to witness the aftermath of my own murder. It’s not right. It’s eerie. I’m lying on the floor, half propped against the bedroom wall in my red dress with the plunging neckline and the silver beading. Wow, I love that dress. It makes my waist look so tiny and my boobs look huge. My diamond earrings are really catching the light right now, and they actually sparkle against my hair. It’s just all that blood spattered against the wall that I hate, and my hair is gooey on one side, and my legs are splayed all stupid looking. Oh my God, my tongue! It's hanging out of my mouth and my eyes are wide open! I swear, Mike better not leave me like that for all those detectives and forensic people to see. If he does, I’ll just die.

This is so creepy. I don’t feel a thing. It’s like I’m absolutely alive, but I’m not. I mean, I’m standing right here, but there I am, dead on the floor. Murdered. Looking ugly, but well-dressed. Mike is pacing in circles and if the word "shit" was a prayer, he’s really praying hard right now. Oh Geez, he’s vomiting. He’s barely missing my new Prada pumps. It would serve him right, though, if some of it splashes on my body and his DNA, based on stomach content, was discovered during my autopsy. Do we still have capital punishment in California? I hope so. Bastard! If I could just reposition my poor lifeless foot into that vomit, I would.

He didn’t have to kill me. All Mike had to do was present a first-class bargaining point. Money. I knew all about her. His little “Miss Rock My World.” He can have her. I don’t care. Tit for tat. I just want to enjoy the benefits of all his money….WANTED to enjoy the benefits, I mean.

I ‘m really, really, dead. Shot in the head, just hanging around watching Mike sweat and swear. And me, Leonora Collette Smick, once the prettiest little girl in school, is now being dragged by my foot, through vomitous DNA, and rolled into a pink blanket, probably to be buried out in some dark woods where wild animals will dig me up and chew my bones, and worms will….Oh Shit! No! I’m not going to hover around watching THAT spectacle unfold. If I can’t shop , then I don’t want to be here anymore.

I’m getting scared now. They say there"s a beautiful white light that people are supposed to walk into when they die? I can’t see it. And where are the dead people that are supposed to meet me and escort me in? I can’t see them, either.

" Ma! Grandpa! Auntie Ruth? Come on out. I’m ready. Somebody?"

Hurry, before Mike buries me, and the worms and coyotes come….and he kisses Miss Rock My World, right in front of me.

Blackness.

Off Topic:

Here's my first attempt. Hope I didn't screw it up too much.

I felt my arm go warm as the saline drip was started and the three chemicals were injected. My toes and fingertips began to tingle and the warmth turned cold and stiff. Hell, if that was all there was to dying, bring it on. The muscles in my legs jerked a little then the stabs and tingles began there as well. Suddenly, I felt another warmth spread down my thighs.

Through the window between the death chamber and the gallery, I saw the girl’s mother. Red hair, just like her little nine-year-old daughter. Mmm. I wonder if mother was as good as daughter? Her eyes stared at the wet stain on my pants and she gripped her husband’s arm as if to say, “Ha, we made him piss himself.”

Big f_ _ _ing deal. ‘They all do,’ just ask the goddamned guard.

My chest tightened and my lips felt numb. I worked my tongue against the inside of my mouth and hissed, “There were five . . . ”

The warden leaned over me. “Five what?”

“Other girls,” I hissed out my last words on this earth. I hoped my eyes conveyed my satisfaction at knowing they hadn’t beaten me. I’m taking the whereabouts of their five little bodies and the details of my crimes to my death. He had to see the satisfaction in my . . . my eyes were not filled with satisfaction anymore, but with a terrible realization: I shouldn’t be aware of any of this!

“You figured it out, didn’t you Leonard?” The warden leaned forward and whispered, ‘”We altered your drugs. It was Mrs. Warren’s idea. You remember Mrs. Warren, the pretty lady over yonder with the red hair. At least, I’m sure you knew her little girl.”

My eyes sought out the red-haired woman in the window. Her eyes burned right back at me, right through me. My mind lurched as a stab of pain flashed in my feet. My muscles were frozen in place. My body didn’t budge.

“She read about a court case in O-hi-o,” the warden said. “Seems these two death row inmates are claiming that O-hi-o’s method of execution is cruel and inhuman punishment.”

Damn! My mind screamed in agony, my body unable to respond, except to feel the pain as my legs died and the death ate its way up through my groin, into my chest.

“See they use this here drug . . . ” he turned away and grabbed a vile and read the label, “Pan . . . pancur . . . pancuronium Bromide. Huh, hell of a name.”

Arrgh! Ahh! Goddamn! A fiery sword stabbed slowly into my heart!

“See, it’s a paralyzing drug, but when combined with a certain quick acting anesthetic, it don’t work quite right . . . ”

My lungs kicked once gasping for air. Then the 'sword' twisted again.

“The combination of drugs causes a kind of chemical block against the signs of pain, but not the pain. Vets won’t even use those chemicals to kill animals. They say it’s like living through your own tortured death then dying anyway.”

I looked at the warden, defiance and hatred in my eyes. I still won. I alone know about the five other dead girls.

“On your way to hell you might think about this. Your cell mate told us about the other five girls, in detail, in exchange for a lighter sentence. We already found their bodies. Seems you talk in your sleep.”

Goddamned.