Published October 27, 2016
The coffin snaps shut.
There’s a shuffling, a few murmured words, a breeze whirling past. Not that Lawrence can catch any of it-- He is, after all, the one being buried.
He shifts against the rigid walls, feeling their stiff embrace. There’s a coldness to it all-- but that’s hardly new. He’s packed in tightly, like a child in the womb-- A stillborn, this time.
There’s a dull thump as spades sink into the earth. Is that the soil spilling on the coffin lid, or rain starting to fall, or maybe someone knocking? Not that there’s any way to knock back-- His fists are curled like ferns.
Lawrence waits, letting the rhythm of plunging spade and scattered soil take him away. Let them bury him slowly-- What’s time to him now? He draws a feverish breath. He’s paid them to do it, after all.
Another clod of dirt on the lid. Another step into hell. Briefly, a lance of panic seizes him-- An instinct of self-preservation telling him to pound against this coffin, to yell at the top of his lungs before it’s too late, to writhe and bellow and be done with this whole affair. The sound of the spades creeps away as the dirt begins to stifle the sound-- Then the air. He wants to worm his way out, draw a breath of fresh air, tell himself it’s not too late, it’s not too late.
And then, he remembers his promise.
There’s a coursing sound-- Is it the River Styx rushing past, or the brush of an angel's wing? He’s got not a coin for the ferryman, and not a word to say in his defence. Or maybe it’s just the blood pounding in his head. He feels a pulse beat against the brain, feels himself grow terribly cold.
A final clod of dirt. They’ve sealed the letter now, beaten the last embers out of the flame.
The silence surges back.
There is darkness, and the sound of his own breaths-- Of which he has precious few left. Not long, now, before the darkness asphyxiates him. What’s beyond? What does he care? All he knows is the grip of the grave and the promise that led him here.
What should be his last thought? Does it matter? Who will hear?
He smiles contentedly, settling into a final sleep.
The Reaper won’t come knocking for him. He won’t die a withered husk. That’s the point of this, after all. He will die on his own terms. Still fair, still youthful, even vigorous. Of course, some day this coffin will buckle, and he’ll be a feast for worms, first a rotting shell, then scattered marrow, then nutrients working their way through the seams of a tree.
He has nothing to prove, for this promise isn’t for someone else, or even himself.
“Death” He calls hoarsely into the void, feeling the last inches of life trickle from him.
“I kept my promise”.
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139,664 Literary Works • 672,645 Reviews
Hello! It's the Chirave Canicthus here to review your work on behalf of the Spoopy Skeletons!
I really like this piece. In the very beginning, I didn't realize that this was a man committing suicide (? Unsure if it counts as suicide because folks are helping him.)
As it was going further into the beginning, I definitely started to see a darker tone to this. I actually had to look back onto the text to see if my hunch was right. And lo and behold, it was. I could start to feel the terror that the man was getting. The sentences were paced just right for that. They weren't too long, which reminded me of how people don't think too much when they're scared.
Then, the sentences got longer as the man remembered his promise. He calmed down a bit, realizing that he was winning against death. The sentences are so well paced. I can tell when his time's running out because the paragraphs are shorter and shorter.
I like how in the beginning, he's wondering what his last thought is. In the end, he says, "I kept my promise." It's so succinct and ties the story off well. It's so abrupt, that we see how his life was cut short. Idk. I just find it cool how you use sentence length to your advantage.
So yeah! I liked this piece a lot because it put me into the character's head and made me feel just like the character.
Keep Writing and happy Review Day!
Chirave Out!
Thanks for the review, it was super helpful!
(Go Spoops!)
Greetings from The Swordsman!
I have to say that this is an interesting piece that leaves me questioning at the end of it all.
To start off however, I would like to applaud your sense of timing in this piece. It has a good feel to it. The shorter lines of the story make the reader feel the main character's unease as he is slowly buried alive, and later on as it starts to feel more like the shortness of breath as he is suffocating.
Something else caught my eye was the direct focus on a single sense. Buried in a coffin there really isn't anything to see, smell, taste, though you do give a small note to the darkness and the feeling of his coffin around him, but these are left as minor points. The direct focus on what he hears and how it times the moments leading to his death with every clot of dirt packed onto his small space is a good symbol for the slow ending of his life.
Now onto something that I had some trouble with. Why? I understand that there is some sort of promise involved but what is the promise? That Death won't be the one to come for him? That he will end his life on his own terms? It was hinted to be that (I think) but I really don't have an answer as to what was promised.
I like how you left the story ending on that single idea of a man keeping his promise. It really does bring it to a close, though still makes me wonder what the promise is.
Overall, I liked it. As far as grammar and the like, I couldn't find anything that really caught my eye as I was reading.
Happy Writing!!!
Thanks for the review!
I kept it pretty vague, but the loose intention was that his promise was not to die on his own terms rather than let death claim him.
At any rate, I'm glad you enjoyed!