STORY: The Death's-Head Table
A very short story this time. Creepy. Based on some beliefs about the apocalypse.
As usual, if you want more stories from me, hop over to my Patreon.
I was going to tell you why the coffee-table looks like that.
Then, back when the dead arose, I was just a little kid. The first thing dad did was to go outside without saying where he was going. He brought Jillian, she was a big strong chick and almost fully grown, but not me. It was almost lunchtime, white light flooding between the terraced flats, when they came back with granddad's grave slab from the cemetery up on the hill across the Tame. I say “granddad's,” but it was the marker for dad's family plot. You can see how many names there are. It was only dad and Aunt Joanna left. It was a couple of years before I realised that before the Rebirth, even two people wouldn't have been able to carry such a large stone slab. You see the legs? They're cast iron.
I'm guessing it's from the start of the 20th century, that's when the names start, but the frieze along the top edge is inspired by older tombstones. A bit Puritan - Colonial, they would say in the States. It is literally a memento mori, with REMEMBER DEATH on each side of that clumsy ball-shaped skull with its trumpet. I read about a guy who had a similar tombstone, but there the admonition was delivered by an angel, that is a messenger.
Dad straightened his back after he and Jillian put the slab down on the driveway, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“So it won't be in the way when my old man makes his way out of the ground,” he said.
Mum was there, and I remembered afterwards that she was glancing at him. While we waited for granddad's resurrection, dad got in touch with a craftsman who made a set of legs for the slab so that it could stand as a coffee-table.
“Remember death,” dad said, running his finger across the raised skull with its elongated wings. “And we will. We'll remember that death is over.”
Several days passed while he waited for granddad to return, resurrected with his flesh grown back onto his bones and the smell of fresh soil in his clothes, so that they could sit around his tombstone and play blackjack with Monopoly money the way they had before Jillian and I were born. Several weeks must have passed.
“It's over, Christopher,” mum said to him.
Perhaps she'd said that when granddad was in hospital for the last time.
Dad didn't give up. He lumbered through the house like an animal locked in a too small space. When at last we received the revelation that the Resurrection of the Righteous was over - when we were just waiting for that of the Unrighteous - he went out into the living-room and punched the tabletop.
We sat around the table, without granddad, with candles lit when the power gave in and darkness fell.
THE END
As usual, if you want more stories from me, hop over to my Patreon.
I was going to tell you why the coffee-table looks like that.
Then, back when the dead arose, I was just a little kid. The first thing dad did was to go outside without saying where he was going. He brought Jillian, she was a big strong chick and almost fully grown, but not me. It was almost lunchtime, white light flooding between the terraced flats, when they came back with granddad's grave slab from the cemetery up on the hill across the Tame. I say “granddad's,” but it was the marker for dad's family plot. You can see how many names there are. It was only dad and Aunt Joanna left. It was a couple of years before I realised that before the Rebirth, even two people wouldn't have been able to carry such a large stone slab. You see the legs? They're cast iron.
I'm guessing it's from the start of the 20th century, that's when the names start, but the frieze along the top edge is inspired by older tombstones. A bit Puritan - Colonial, they would say in the States. It is literally a memento mori, with REMEMBER DEATH on each side of that clumsy ball-shaped skull with its trumpet. I read about a guy who had a similar tombstone, but there the admonition was delivered by an angel, that is a messenger.
Dad straightened his back after he and Jillian put the slab down on the driveway, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“So it won't be in the way when my old man makes his way out of the ground,” he said.
Mum was there, and I remembered afterwards that she was glancing at him. While we waited for granddad's resurrection, dad got in touch with a craftsman who made a set of legs for the slab so that it could stand as a coffee-table.
“Remember death,” dad said, running his finger across the raised skull with its elongated wings. “And we will. We'll remember that death is over.”
Several days passed while he waited for granddad to return, resurrected with his flesh grown back onto his bones and the smell of fresh soil in his clothes, so that they could sit around his tombstone and play blackjack with Monopoly money the way they had before Jillian and I were born. Several weeks must have passed.
“It's over, Christopher,” mum said to him.
Perhaps she'd said that when granddad was in hospital for the last time.
Dad didn't give up. He lumbered through the house like an animal locked in a too small space. When at last we received the revelation that the Resurrection of the Righteous was over - when we were just waiting for that of the Unrighteous - he went out into the living-room and punched the tabletop.
We sat around the table, without granddad, with candles lit when the power gave in and darkness fell.
THE END