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Some Fiction
Not many people know this but in addition to being a graphic designer, I like to think I have an alter ego as a writer. Nothing that I necessarily brag about because to me it’s nothing special but there’s something cathartic about it. Below is a piece from a short story that we had to compose in a creative writing class in college.
The body rested in a fine mahogany coffin fitted with a plate of glass. All arrangements for the funeral had been so well attended to that had the deceased known he would have doubtlessly approved. The face, as it showed under the glass, was not disagreeable to look upon. It bore a faint smile, as if the death had been painless, had not been distorted beyond the repairing power of the undertaker.
Barry loathed black suits, which is why the one he bared was a refreshing charcoal color with a sapphire-colored vest that seemed to alter colors depending on which side of the coffin you stood and gazed. My mother sat in the living room sofa, her knees pressed together, aloof and not wanting to confront the reality of what had risen unsurprisingly. All she knew was that one-day her world was bright and shinning and filled with love, and the next, everything fell into a gloomy, saddened, tear-stained landscape. Relatives and close acquaintances swarmed around her like frantic bees upon a vacant cluster of pollen offering their most sincere expression of sorrow.
Beneath her trembling lips I could decipher the words she repeated as if it were her mantra, “Damn the sugar…the cabin,” yet I never knew what our cabin in Messina had to do with it.
