The Gravedigger’s Wife

For Fandango’s Flashback Friday I thought we would revist

The Gravedigger’s Wife.

Tree Shadows on the Park Wall, Roundhay
John Atkinson Grimshaw

Cilla Breck works as receptionist in a Funeral Home, her husband is a Gravedigger for the County and Cilla’s only other living relative beside her husband is distant cousin named Georgina who until her appeals run out will be sitting on death row in a State that has never executed a woman before.

Cilla wakes up hoping that the world will not start paying attention to  next and so far it hasn’t.

She stood alone at the bus stop where she waits for the S-4 where sits alone in the back of the bus.

Cilla does not say hello to the driver she does not from left to right and it’s debateable that she actually focuses on anything in front of her as she makes her way to the last seat.

Like most nights, Cilla set her backpack on her lap and looked out the window and began to wonder what she should make for dinner, or maybe she should have a Pizza delivered when she felt something  bump her elbow.

She looked over and sitting there right next to her was a man in a blue suit.

He smiled at her.

She did not smile back.

“ Chilly tonight, isn’t it?” he asked.

She did not answer.

She was busy thinking, he didn’t look familiar so he wasn’t a regular rider. She guessed he was a new rider.

And a chatty one.

Cilla hated chatty bus riders.

She was looking out the window when a thought crept up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.

It said.

“ Cilla, did you see this guy at the bus stop?”

No, Cilla told herself.

“ Did you see him when you were walking to the back of the bus?”

Can’t say I did.

“ Doesn’t that bother you Cilla?”

Does what bother me?

“ Well, first of all that you don’t seem to focus on anyone-which seems to be something a lot of people are guilty of. But look at this awful position you’re in because of that. Some guy came out of nowhere and touched your elbow. He got that close to you Cilla. He touched your elbow. And he’s talking to you”

Cilla ended her one sided conversation and looked at the man from the corner of her eye and then she looked out the window.

She saw him sitting next to her.

He was looking out the window and that’s where their eyes met.

Cilla turned back to him and stared into his face for moment.

And then she turned back to the window.

She never saw him coming.

He got close enough to touch her.

And now he was staring at her.

“ I don’t think I’ve ever seen you on this bus before.”

“ I ride it every night. “ he told her.

“ This bus?”

“ This bus.”

Cilla pulled her shoulder away from the man and she said bluntly. “ I’ve never seen you before.”

“ I’ve seen you.” He said.

Cilla did not doubt that.

“ I’ve even  sat next to you a few times. “

Cilla looked straight ahead.

“ I’ve even gotten off at your stop  with a couple of times.”

Cilla wondered if anyone noticed the two of them talking.

“ But mostly I get on at  the stop on Second and Washington.”

Cilla clutched her backpack to her chest.

Nobody used the stop on 2nd.  Cilla didn’t even use it,

That stop was located by the Southwall- back in the old days that’s where the John and Jane Does were buried.

The women were buried in simple dresses and the men…

In Blue Suits.

I am sitting next to a ghost, Cilla told herself. I am sitting next to the ghost of a dead man.

He knows that I know what he is and people are looking right at us and they don’t know what they are looking at.

She looked ahead as the bus pulled up to a stop and  when she turned to look at the Dead Man in the Blue Suit…

He was gone.

She looked out the window and she saw him at the bus stop standing next to a woman talking on her phone and a man reading a book.

They were looking around the Deadman and right at the Deadman and Cilla guessed they weren’t actually seeing the Deadman.

But he saw them.

He was looking right at them.

Photographer Unknown

The Road Behind My House

I was inspired to write this by ” Coffin Roads “- those were roads that connected villages to cemeteries. These roads existed in the Middle Ages, but if you lived by one of those unused( ? ) roads now,  I can’t help but to feel that would not be good for somone with an exciteable immagination.

I took a stab at using the acrostic form from a challenge at Experience Writing  Called Facing our Fears.  The phobia I chose was Taphophobia, the fear of being buried alive.  This form really was a challenge, but I enjoyed taking it and I may have a go at it again.

Gertrude Abercrombie-Sunset-c.1954

There is a road behind my house

and everyone who travels  it is asleep

pulled by a horse and carriage

headed for a house that is six feet deep

only the sleepers live there

people  who visit leave them flowers and  coins

haunted by ghostly memories

on nights when they are always alone

by myself in my bedroom where I never sleep

in the fear I will hear,

are you ready, we can take her now, and they will bring my coffin upstairs.

 

The Coffin Road to Loch Shiel in Scotland.

The Gallery

RDP Friday: ROCKER

There are times when I don’t understand why some artists and writers lose their marbles and they fly off the rails and crash.

And there are times when I get it:

One afternoon I was haunting my favorite  art museum – its called the Frye Art Museum and it’s Seattle. I was  there trying out my new camera ( not a phone camera but an actual camera ) that I hadn’t go the hang of using yet.

Then I posted the pictures to my Google account and forgot about them. I may have posted them to my blogs, but it’s been awhile so I’m not sure how long ago that was.

Anyway when I put them together I felt like maybe there’s a story here. Maybe if I keep looking I’ll find it or maybe I’m off my rocker for even trying. Maybe they’re are just random pictures taken in a random moment years ago with a camera I no  longer own and I’m  trying to make sense out of something that never made sense to begin with.

Those thoughts are now messing with my mind. Maybe that is the story. I don’t know.

amm

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo: A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso