Flash in the Pan
A Quarterly Posting at Tiny Lights
O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?
by Jack Swenson
There were a lot of people at Billy's funeral; I don't know why. He was a jerk. I was there because I wanted to support his mom. I think that's why everybody else was there, too. Nobody liked Billy. He was a liar and a mooch and a child molester.
If you didn't like surprises, Billy was a good guy to know. You always knew where you stood with Billy. You asked him something, he gave you an answer, and you knew the opposite of whatever he said was true. If he said it was, it wasn't.
But there he was, all laid out in the casket, big as life. I was afraid he would get up and walk any minute. I think a lot of the mourners felt that way. You could almost hear the sigh of relief once the service was over.
There was Buck standing outside the church laughing at something. He was stuffed into his all purpose black suit, which he wore to both weddings and funerals. I saw a bunch of other folks I know, too. They were all members in good standing of the Juice Church. I gave Bertie a hug. Bertie was a tough old gal who had survived cancer, a hip replacement, gall bladder surgery, and umpteen broken bones. She was famous for letting one of the younger guys garage his Harley at her place in exchange for giving her a ride. She was probably seventy years old when she got her first motorcycle ride.
Chubby Danny was there with his new wife, a mail order bride he got in Vietnam. So were Art and Buster and Connie and Lobster Bob. All good people. Solid people. Sober people. Everybody in a festive mood. Everybody emptied into the starry night, glad to be alive.
Jack Swenson is a resident of Fremont, California. He wants you to buy his books of flash fiction. Proceeds go to animal charities. Woof woof, meow meow. The animals thank you.
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