One paragraph story... July 29 edition

Mr. Peter Francis died on August 14th, 2014. He left a wife, and two children. The children missed him dearly, but had been out of the house and living their lives for close to 10 years now. His wife, Rebecca, was distraught. Thirty-seven years of marriage, and three years of courting, and Peter always being around had broken her spirit. Peter was aware through the entire funeral, and burial of the effect his dying had on her, and while his soul lay in his lifeless body, staring at the ceiling of the mortuary, and finally the blackness of his coffin, he knew he couldn't leave her. First his fingers wiggled, and then his toes. He began to feel his knees twitch, and his shoulders. His neck moved, just a bit, and he hit his head on the wood through the fabric covering the top of the casket. Through the night and most of the next day, Peter used his cufflinks, his tie clip; his belt buckled, and then his fingers and nails to work a hole through the coffin, and dig his way six feet up to the late August, night air. He opened his mouth to breath in the freshness, but nothing cam out. He tried again, and all he could manage was a slow moan. Walking along the grass and down the alleys to his house he thought about two things: Having a nice lemon Neo Citron, and hugging his wife. When he arrived at the cul de sac where his house sat, he saw Phoenix Rasmusson out on his bike well past his bed time. Peter knew his parents would be worried so he tried to mouth “Get on home”, but again he could only moan. Phoenix dropped his bike and ran off. Peter picked the bike up and set it against his neighbour’s fence, and shambled up the steps to his house. The door was locked. He found the key under the fake rock, opened the door, and after closing and locking it again, he moved to the second floor to surprise his loving wife with a snuggle. He stood at the door and stared at her while she slept: So beautiful, still after all these years. The colour in her cheeks, so red and warm. The shape of her under the sheets, fit and tender. Her skin still elastic and firm. His stomach rumbled and he stepped closer. He had hoped to kiss her. He ran a finger along her face, she stirred, and smacked her lips. So did Peter. Peter ran the covers down her body and found himself drawn back to her face, her head, her skull, her brain. He knew he loved her for her brains. Those precious, delicious brains. He knew in order to be closer to her he needed her brains. He leaned in to be more near. So nice, so smart, so delicious. He was hungry. Real hungry. Perhaps a small bite and then bed. A small bite, and then…

James C.