(no subject)
Two
Three Little Words
You and I are standing among the corpses of the human race, and so I must ask you a question of considerable importance:
Are you alive?
Do not answer me yet. Instead, I want you to examine that headstone over there, beyond the statue. You will see that time and rain have worn away the letters of its face, leaving behind nothing but the silent anonymity of death. You should approach it: lay your hand upon the stone and close your eyes. Breathe in. Take a moment to understand that, in the absence of a name, the bones upon which you kneel are only bones.
In a moment, I shall tell you that you are kneeling upon the grave of a woman by the name of Florence Farley, whose passing occurred on the fourteenth evening of October, in the year sixteen-ninety-nine. This was all the headstone had to say - it never carried an epitaph.
Flo Farley, you see, had been dead for many years before she died. She had married young at the bidding of her parents, and in social terms married rather well. Alas, however, her husband was something of a buffoon and a bore, and after the disappointment of her wedding night she spent the majority of her married life trying to avoid meeting him in bed. Night after night, when her husband had begun to snore, Flo would slip beneath the blanket and lie on her back, one soft hand upon her chest. She had yet to feel anything but the monotonous thump of a tedious life.
Over the years Flo had developed a rather unique way of marking the passage of time. Every year for her birthday, at Christmas and on the anniversary of their marriage, her husband bought her a pearl necklace. Every year she took each of those necklaces apart. At the beginning of every day she placed a single pearl into a glass jar, and when the jar was full, she took it down to the end of the garden and buried it in the shadow of the stable.
On the day that she stole the coat, Flo Farley had been married for a total of eight-thousand, eight-hundred and twenty-four pearls.
She would never be able to explain why, when she saw the coat in the inn, unguarded and alone, she put it on with impeccable calm, and walked away. She had, after all, only intended to stop for the briefest of refreshments on her way to buy a loaf of bread. It was in that unlikely moment that Florence Farley felt the first flicker of potential life, for what a peculiar feeling it is, to obey an impulse that you do not yourself understand. Flo returned home that afternoon in her new coat, and proceeded to dance around the bedroom in a newly liberated pair of her husband’s breeches.
Exactly five pearls after she had stolen a coat for no apparent reason Flo Farley was chasing that flicker of life at full-tilt on horseback, along the main road between London and Hertford. And thus it was that, in her new coat, and her husband’s breeches, with a pistol in her hand, Flo Farley hurtled towards the three words that would lead her to her final breath.
“Stand and deliver!”
After they had gone, and her purse was filled with the jewels of an innocent traveller, Flo Farley placed her hand upon her chest and felt the true pounding of life for the very first time. At that moment she had but twenty-one pearls to live.
And now, before I can tell you any more, I shall ask you again:
Are you sure you are alive?
Three Little Words
You and I are standing among the corpses of the human race, and so I must ask you a question of considerable importance:
Are you alive?
Do not answer me yet. Instead, I want you to examine that headstone over there, beyond the statue. You will see that time and rain have worn away the letters of its face, leaving behind nothing but the silent anonymity of death. You should approach it: lay your hand upon the stone and close your eyes. Breathe in. Take a moment to understand that, in the absence of a name, the bones upon which you kneel are only bones.
In a moment, I shall tell you that you are kneeling upon the grave of a woman by the name of Florence Farley, whose passing occurred on the fourteenth evening of October, in the year sixteen-ninety-nine. This was all the headstone had to say - it never carried an epitaph.
Flo Farley, you see, had been dead for many years before she died. She had married young at the bidding of her parents, and in social terms married rather well. Alas, however, her husband was something of a buffoon and a bore, and after the disappointment of her wedding night she spent the majority of her married life trying to avoid meeting him in bed. Night after night, when her husband had begun to snore, Flo would slip beneath the blanket and lie on her back, one soft hand upon her chest. She had yet to feel anything but the monotonous thump of a tedious life.
Over the years Flo had developed a rather unique way of marking the passage of time. Every year for her birthday, at Christmas and on the anniversary of their marriage, her husband bought her a pearl necklace. Every year she took each of those necklaces apart. At the beginning of every day she placed a single pearl into a glass jar, and when the jar was full, she took it down to the end of the garden and buried it in the shadow of the stable.
On the day that she stole the coat, Flo Farley had been married for a total of eight-thousand, eight-hundred and twenty-four pearls.
She would never be able to explain why, when she saw the coat in the inn, unguarded and alone, she put it on with impeccable calm, and walked away. She had, after all, only intended to stop for the briefest of refreshments on her way to buy a loaf of bread. It was in that unlikely moment that Florence Farley felt the first flicker of potential life, for what a peculiar feeling it is, to obey an impulse that you do not yourself understand. Flo returned home that afternoon in her new coat, and proceeded to dance around the bedroom in a newly liberated pair of her husband’s breeches.
Exactly five pearls after she had stolen a coat for no apparent reason Flo Farley was chasing that flicker of life at full-tilt on horseback, along the main road between London and Hertford. And thus it was that, in her new coat, and her husband’s breeches, with a pistol in her hand, Flo Farley hurtled towards the three words that would lead her to her final breath.
“Stand and deliver!”
After they had gone, and her purse was filled with the jewels of an innocent traveller, Flo Farley placed her hand upon her chest and felt the true pounding of life for the very first time. At that moment she had but twenty-one pearls to live.
And now, before I can tell you any more, I shall ask you again:
Are you sure you are alive?