Flash Frenzy Free For All: Eulogy Edition

Posted: May 27, 2017 in Flash Frenzy Free For All
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Hello everyone! This weekend in the States we’re celebrating Memorial Day, so I’m issuing a special Memorial Day Writing Challenge. You have 360 words to compose a eulogy. It can be for anyone or anything. A fictional character. A person from history. The letter Y. A sentient armchair you were secretly in love with. Be creative, have fun, and let us all fondly remember those who are no longer with us.

Round 25


  1. Guided By Voices (Eulogy For My Elusive Love).
    330 words. By Steve Lodge

    I was enjoying a bowl of Shakespeare’s Stutter and some amoeba bread in The Garden Of Dancing Frogs tearoom at the Koncilia Zoo in Horse Ridings. As I sipped at a robust coffee from Northern Belzon, I re-read the letter from darling Elsa and, at that point, I realised how much I missed her. It had been a couple of years since we’d last met. She’d gone off to spearhead an emerging clandestine organisation and I’d become curator of a Cheese Museum in Stormwatch, about a 2 hour journey east of London on the Essex Coast, and about a ten minute drive down the coast from Horse Ridings.

    Her letter was typically vague, said she was fine, visiting London soon and hoped we could dine in her favourite Belzon Restaurant or the Mezzedine Restaurant, both of which were situated in Hendricks Road, Silvertown. She’d be thrilled that The Statellite Club had reopened after the shootings. She loved jazz.

    A line from an Otis Cochise poem came to my mind. “I would do anything she asked, even carry a piano up a ladder.”

    That’s how deep my love for Ilse went. I would wait 4 hours in a bubble bath for her arrival. Her smile took my breath away and sold it down the market. She was magically delicious, and not in a self-pitying way. Not at all. The reverse, if anything.

    Well, Elise’s letter had arrived at a good time for me, as I was in the middle of doing nothing. I smiled as I remembered how openly clever she was. Memory of when I had dived off a footbridge in Santa Siesta at night into the shimmering, translucent waters of Lake Pepe and would have done 9000 lengths if necessary to find her missing contact lens. As it was, I had to be rescued after collapsing with hypothermia after four hours in the water. Luckily Eliza had already left the scene so she didn’t have to see my embarrassment.

  2. Voima Oy says:

    To a Cat
    99 words

    He was a good cat, there was such grace in him. A golden sphynx on the kitchen table, a buddha sleeping in a cardboard box. Where have you gone, my hunter of fireflies, chattering at the sparrows? Where are you? You were the guardian of doorways, of exits and evenings. You could be in two places at once. Are you are out in the garden, now, in the spot of sun near the tall grass? I can see you gazing out the window, watching the light change.

    Oh my friend, familiar! Your green eyes, the color of the leaves…

  3. crsmith2016 says:

    Grandpa’s Shoes

    WC 199


    Grandpa only wore one style of shoe. A flat lace up in soft brown suede — the Hushpuppy. He claimed they were the most comfortable shoes he ever owned! On one side of his armchair he had a pile of gardening books. On the other he created a piece of contemporary art with his shoes.

    As with most works of art, his evolved slowly, one pair at a time. A mound of brown rising up from the green and gold swirls of carpet. Each shoe could be dated as you would a tree, except you counted the wrinkles across the toes instead of the rings of growth.

    Every pair had its uses: the decorating pair splashed with paint, the carpentry pair sprinkled with sawdust, the car maintenance pair splattered with oil stains. Then there was the walking shoe, the driving shoe — the list went on.

    Grandpa’s art installation was constantly changing. He led a busy life. As it grew, hoovering became problematic. Grandma grew tied of haphazardly poking the nozzle attachment between the footwear and decided to make a piece of art herself. Her idea was far more regimented. It involved a shoe rack and the cupboard under the stairs…

  4. Tim Davis says:

    There’s No Sense in Waiting (For Jennifer)
    By T. O. Davis
    255 Words

    There’s No Sense in Waiting

    It was raining again.

    I had reached across the bed because of thunder. You were always a comfort. You were always there to put me back together. I’ve been sleeping a lot trying to infuse the last of your scent into my core so I can carry on.

    There was that time we went to Nags Head and you said you didn’t want to leave, the wind blowing your wig, and I had promised to buy you a house on the beach. You didn’t bat an eye. You kept it together through every appointment, and as you shrank before my eyes, there was always your smile. It was a lighthouse in the storm.

    Would it have been easier had I never met you?

    I ask the rain that same question, but never hear an answer. There’s no sense in waiting, you would say, but I have this nagging, buzzing at the base of my skull, as though you are out shopping and will be home soon or you are about to text me or send a snap, but my phone is just an electronic brick. A dust collector chock full of a digitized version of you.

    It’s not the same, is what you told me that first night we made spaghetti as a couple. I had bought the Hunt’s spaghetti sauce by mistake. I should have known better. You were a Prego girl. That’s ancient history, it seems; arbitrary and irrelevant to my current state, which is just me waiting for the rain to stop.

  5. ewansmithxxx says:

    I’ve been trying to post this story for ages now without success. Fingers crossed.

    345 words

    Sleep, Thou Shalt Die

    It is with reluctance and a deep sense of sadness that I accept and announce the death of sleep. It came at the end of a lengthy and courageous struggle against what would eventually turn out to be insurmountable difficulties.
    The mattress, for instance, was cramped and lumpy. Worse was the bed’s habit of squeaking rhythmically at the slightest movement. Given the thinness of the hotel walls and the many ears which may well have been listening in, this was not a phenomenon conducive to rest.
    Initially, sleep had come quickly and at some point in the night there was a fine dream, though only fragments of it remained. This very room…rippling light…cries…something underwater…tentacles…the strangest coupling. But no, the coupling had been real – was it on the carpet to circumvent the rhythmic squeaking? – real enough anyway, though it had the quality of a dream.
    There was a period in the early hours when twin matters of a pressing nature arose: i) a bladder becoming uncomfortably full due to the earlier consumption of an unknown quantity of Cobra beers and ii) a growing awareness of fluxious and increasingly painful intestinal gases arising from the sharing of the “Chef’s Special” curry. The concentration needed to maintain a stealth aspect to the resultant visit to the toilet had an inevitably weakening effect on sleep’s encircling grip.
    Then, as dawn’s gentle light started creeping through the curtained window, there came the final and deciding issue. The mutual greetings of arriving crows in the tree outside had an exuberance which belied their dark and filthy reputations; how joyous, how raucous, how impossible to ignore. My muttered cursing was a pitiful response.
    I lay supine in the dark, wearied by the sleepless hours stretching ahead until I could finally arise. Then gradually, as the light grew, I grew aware of your hair tangled on the pillow beside me, your bare shoulder, the curve of your hip under the sheet, your faint and rhythmic breathing.
    “And Sleep shall be no more,” I whispered, stretching out a tentative hand. “Sleep, thou shalt die.”

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