A Beautiful Thing Part 611

The grass was a vibrant, neon green on a vast, sloping field that rose toward the immaculate sky. There wasn’t a cloud to be found. All these people were there, people he barely recognized and many he didn’t at all, wearing black that cut the blue background like cardboard paper.

He hid in the shade of a tree while the crowd gathered around the hole.

The priest began speaking and his thoughts closed down. The entire world was just a hum of sadness with occasional spikes of anger, an electronic drone running between his ears. He felt the earth under his feet. It was soft and spongy and threatened to liquefy.

A plane flew overhead, a tiny, large thing in a large, tiny sky. The thought of running away intoxicated him. His feet were already dug into the ground, though, and everybody was looking at him, waiting for him to speak. It was his turn. There was nowhere to go. He opened his mouth and out came a grinding sound at first, but then, after, a sonorous, plaintive serenade to all things painful and lovely.

When he finished there were people crying and smiling at the same time. There were birds chirping. Rose petals on the grave. Worms tunneled deeper into the Earth, nourishing all life to grow. Another plane hurtled toward the horizon, carrying strangers to their waiting baggage claims. There was life and death all around, indifferent to the assembly of man.

He wasn’t sure how, but he had tapped into something deep inside of him, and outside of him at the same time, something horrifying and beautiful and real. He spoke, and it really, really happened.


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