Forever Glass™
Why grieve when you can keep your loved one encased in Forever Glass™? After a loved one passes, wouldn’t you like to see them again? Well now you can! Forever Glass™ is an affordable alternative to caskets and expensive funeral plots. Now losing your loved ones doesn’t have to be as difficult!
Forever Glass™ is the latest in bioelectric and cryogenic machinery. Using patented flesh preservation technology, Forever Glass™ provides a full-size resting place for your loved one, complete with polished glass, etched epitaph, rotating platform, facial reconstruction, fashion and cosmetic services, taxidermy, and remote controlled lighting effects*.
Buy a second one and you can get it for half price! If you call right now, you may also be eligible to receive bonus wiring that sends electrical impulses at your command to elicit body movement. Never thought you’d see Grandma smile after her car accident? Think again! Call right now.
*Add-ons may cost extra on top of the flat rate price of $9,999 for the Forever Glass™ basic box set (6-sided polished glass cube built to size specifications). Shipping and Handling is only $159.99. No refunds allowed. If your Forever Glass™ smells, we’re working on that. In the meantime, spray the body with Axe™ deodorant – if it works on teenage boys, it will work on rotting flesh (Not affiliated with Axe™). For more details, call or text 1-800-555-8176 (Message and data rates may apply) or visit our website: www.GrandmaLivesForeverGlass.com
The Final Round
Bloody knuckles and broken promises
were born in this bedroom. Some fights
are fought without an audience.
Boxing gloves in the corner are ripped
and glisten with blood. The punching bag
lies alone, moaning. This was not
a fair fight. He hides his weapons.
She hides the bruise in her chest.
Opponents rarely leave the ring
unscathed.
“I never loved you.” His arm snaps,
a sickening crunch.
“I lied to you.” Her ankle buckles.
From the floor she says,
“There’s someone else.”
His nose bleeds;
her jaw bruises a deep purple.
Their ribs ache from the inside out;
faces are salty with tears and
sweat. This fight is over.
There is never a winner.
Pheasant Hunting
Smoke drifts from the chimney of the
farmhouse as the sun rises over hard
-packed dirt. Small shiny boots struggle to
keep up with large ones, worn and
covered in mud.
Shells of soybean stalks whimper
underfoot, crying out with soft crunches.
They stop walking, a calloused hand
holding back the little one as a father
draws his gun. A gasp – then silence.
A pheasant squawks, obvious in the
empty field. Gunshots ring in the dead air,
and two soft thuds follow. Now the little
one has his time: in oversized overalls, he
stumbles to the kill.
One lies still with a wound in its breast,
turning the soft feathers a deep red. Four
feet from it, the other is still alive,
although barely so. Its eyes blink quickly,
feet kicking.
He wipes his snotty nose and picks it up;
the bird scratches fear into him with the
last of its being before falling limp in the
boy’s hands. How interesting to see the
light disappear from its eyes.
Grabbing the other, the boy’s fear is
replaced with a sense of awe. His father
ruffles his hair and smiles. The day’s work
is done. They walk back towards the
house, side by side, both of their boots
dirty.
Moments
He takes a swig from the wine bottle, winces, and passes it to her. She doesn’t sip, but scratches at the label. Chardonnay. Headlights come over the hill, and they lay flat in the back of the pickup so no one sees them. After they fade, sitting up, he asks:
“What’s been the best moment of your life?” Her reply is quick.
“It hasn’t happened yet. I’m still waiting for it.” He takes the bottle back from her and sips at it, thinking. They sit in silence for a little while, feeling the wine pump through their systems. He hands the bottle to her, urging her to drink, and she complies. He readies himself, slightly tipsy.
“Okay, then – worst moment of your life.” Another car drives by, they flatten, but this time they continue to lay down after it passes. The stars are out tonight.
“It hasn’t happened yet either,” she explains. “Sure, I could pick a best and a worst moment, but there is so much more to experience. I feel like if I’m waiting for a better best moment to come along, then I can’t pick a worst. I can’t hope for the universe to throw me something extraordinarily great and then not expect something terrible to go hand-in-hand along with it. It’s not fair like that. You can’t leave things unbalanced just because you want to. Sometimes you have to realize how huge the universe is and how incredibly small we are. We don’t have that sort of power.” He stares at the night sky with glazed eyes and mouth slightly agape.
“You think too much about this sort of thing,” he slurs, and nuzzles into her shoulder. He is asleep within seconds. She sees a shooting star, but doesn’t make a wish. He is drooling on her sweatshirt, now.
“Yeah, I guess so,” she replies to his sleeping body. “But someone has to.” She empties the bottle.
Abandoned
Shelves of books covered in a fine layer of dust stand alone, the rest of the room deserted. The carpet is sun-bleached around the spaces where tables used to be; other parts of it are torn up completely. Cobwebs stretch across the high ceilings and on old computer monitors, discarded. Water drips in the corner of the room, molding a spot of the carpet away to reveal fractured concrete.
This is my hideaway, this skeleton of a library. My fingerprints are stamped in the dust layers; the carpet sinks in with my every footstep. I can spend hours here, lounging with the sun shining through broken windows. I consume words and breathe in the smell of old book glue in spines that have been cracked too many times.
Boxes of black and white photographs whisper in the back, and I open them to listen. Each tells a story, a lifetime of stories. A woman in three fur coats tells me of how she lost her son in a boating accident, a boy with dirty glasses and messy hair explains why the first week of March is the best to plant roses, and a group of little girls with their noses in books giggle and turn pages excitedly. These are my people. Their stories are a part of me.
Early mornings here are simple - whispers through the hazy air and quiet page-turnings. When the sun begins to rise, I lie in the middle of the floor and watch my skin change colors under the stained-glass window: purple fingers, golden arms, blue torso.
It is not magical in the daylight. After the sunrise, I slide the books back into their spots and whisper lullabies to the photographs. The cobwebs shrink as the room is flooded in light. I slip quietly out the side door, back into the real world.
The Hardest Questions to Answer
How many nights did they spend driving aimlessly? They watched those windshield wipers swipe back and forth, back and forth. The radio blared music out of the speakers and into their veins. She would make him stop the car and they would get out to dance, arms outstretched in the pouring rain. They laughed in the headlights and he noticed nothing but her.
How long will this last?
How many packets of Twizzlers did they consume while driving? There were so many wrappers on the dash, up by her wiggling toes. They bit off the ends and used them as straws in tall gas station cups. She giggled when he cursed at the road signs and answered, “Someplace good,” when he asked her where they were. They used each other’s eyes as roadmaps and got beautifully lost.
How long will this last?
How many mornings did he awake next to a cold pillow? It didn’t seem like many at first. There were still good days, full of contentment and bubbling baby giggles; but soon it became every morning. The child would cry, a red face and raw throat. She would cry, too. And so would he. No mother wants to see her child suffer. No husband wants to watch his wife slowly wither.
What now?
How many days has it been since she’s left her bed? It seems like ages. He stops by everyday to coax her out of bed, out of the unwashed sheets. He opens the windows, the blinds, to no avail. The room is impenetrable to light. She grabs a glass on the bedside table and drains it before sinking back into a numb state that even he cannot shake her from.
Water or vodka?
How many drunken scenes until she sees him again? He spends hours searching for the bottom of the glass in his hand, refilling and refilling. All he can think of is her numb stare, not looking at him, but through him. His life longs for meaning. A stranger bumps his shoulder, and the rest of his night is a blur of fists, bleeding lips, and the scrape of a scruffy cheek on hard pavement.
Water or vodka?
How many marriages have been tested like this? Theirs cannot be the only one. The glowing days of walks under streetlamps and new baby clothes are replaced with dark reminders like medical bills and empty picture frames. They grow distant; feeling her skin under his fingertips is foreign. The gold of wedding bands is only so strong.
When will all this end?