(no subject)
It was raining. Drizzling. Water dripped onto open umbrellas at the funeral site, into the open holes awaiting their caskets - five of them, austere in black and silver. A large amount of the town stood murmuring to one another between the lines of the sermon, clustered beneath their umbrellas. How appropriate, they muttered, was the weather? They whispered of bad dreams the night before, of the inability to sleep at all. Few spoke of the line of caskets or the family that lay inside them, darting around the subject as though it were silently agreed to be taboo. The sermon droned on, and they continued, a murmuring sea of black and gray.
No one broached the subject that the caskets should only have numbered four.
No one broached the subject that the caskets should only have numbered four.