On a Sunny Day
A short fic about a group of unusually-named friends, dragged into a cemetery by one's boyfriend. Written for the prompt 'cemetery' on story_lottery.
It’s pretty hard to feel comfortable in a cemetery.
I’ve only ever been in one once, and that was for my cousin’s funeral. He was only seven, and his mother wept- not violently or loudly. She just stood there, her expression frozen, the tears rolling down her cheeks. My uncle occasionally dabbed at her face with his handkerchief. He himself stood as still as his wife, his hands clenched into fists except when attending to his wife. His jaw was tight, like he was trying to convince himself his only son wasn’t dead.
My sister’s boyfriend managed to drag us back into one.
Wyrda’s boyfriend was the one who convinced her to change her name from Iphigenia to Wyrda; not an improvement, in the unanimous opinion of our small social circle. His name is Llewellyn, which I remain convinced he’d changed from Brian or some such. Frankly, I’m not sure why we still keep Iffie- no, Wyrda- and her pretentious boyfriend in the loop, or maybe that’s because I’ve got to live with her and everyone else doesn’t.
As I was saying, he’d dragged us into a cemetery, and not our local one, either. No, it had to be the one out in the countryside, surrounded by creepy forests and full of even creepier gravestones, and most unfortunately, on a hill with an overly potholed road.
Fiona, whose name is actually Ffiona because unfortunately her parents decided it looked better with two f’s instead of one, was cursing up a storm as she brought up the rear of our little procession. Since I was immediately in front of her, and of course being Wyrda’s brother, I took the brunt of it. It amounted to various permutations and combinations of ‘damn’, fuck’, ‘Jesus Christ’, assorted animals and types of shoes, and my childhood nickname, Tess (which she knows drives me nuts- my name is Orestes, dammit).
So while we hiked, Fiona’s rant a comforting background noise, Llewellyn explained to us exactly what our roles were in this photo shoot. Sieuwerd almost pitched a fit when he learned that his attendance was merely for transportation purposes, and therefore he could have waited in the car. Thankfully, he’s of a sweeter temper than lovely Fiona, so we weren’t subjected to harmonized rants.
Once at the top, Llewellyn, whose stamina seemed to have bested all of ours, spread out his arms and said proudly, “Tada!”
I didn’t think much of this. It was a cemetery, for crip’s sake. Nothing to take pride in. But Iff- Wyrda had insisted on me coming along for moral support. Everyone else was persuaded by Llewellyn. Besides, Wyrda all dressed up and being photographed was a spectacle no one wanted to miss. Not that my sister isn’t good-looking, but she’s not much for fashion.
I picked a spot in the shade to unpack. It was going to be a long day.
It’s pretty hard to feel comfortable in a cemetery.
I’ve only ever been in one once, and that was for my cousin’s funeral. He was only seven, and his mother wept- not violently or loudly. She just stood there, her expression frozen, the tears rolling down her cheeks. My uncle occasionally dabbed at her face with his handkerchief. He himself stood as still as his wife, his hands clenched into fists except when attending to his wife. His jaw was tight, like he was trying to convince himself his only son wasn’t dead.
My sister’s boyfriend managed to drag us back into one.
Wyrda’s boyfriend was the one who convinced her to change her name from Iphigenia to Wyrda; not an improvement, in the unanimous opinion of our small social circle. His name is Llewellyn, which I remain convinced he’d changed from Brian or some such. Frankly, I’m not sure why we still keep Iffie- no, Wyrda- and her pretentious boyfriend in the loop, or maybe that’s because I’ve got to live with her and everyone else doesn’t.
As I was saying, he’d dragged us into a cemetery, and not our local one, either. No, it had to be the one out in the countryside, surrounded by creepy forests and full of even creepier gravestones, and most unfortunately, on a hill with an overly potholed road.
Fiona, whose name is actually Ffiona because unfortunately her parents decided it looked better with two f’s instead of one, was cursing up a storm as she brought up the rear of our little procession. Since I was immediately in front of her, and of course being Wyrda’s brother, I took the brunt of it. It amounted to various permutations and combinations of ‘damn’, fuck’, ‘Jesus Christ’, assorted animals and types of shoes, and my childhood nickname, Tess (which she knows drives me nuts- my name is Orestes, dammit).
So while we hiked, Fiona’s rant a comforting background noise, Llewellyn explained to us exactly what our roles were in this photo shoot. Sieuwerd almost pitched a fit when he learned that his attendance was merely for transportation purposes, and therefore he could have waited in the car. Thankfully, he’s of a sweeter temper than lovely Fiona, so we weren’t subjected to harmonized rants.
Once at the top, Llewellyn, whose stamina seemed to have bested all of ours, spread out his arms and said proudly, “Tada!”
I didn’t think much of this. It was a cemetery, for crip’s sake. Nothing to take pride in. But Iff- Wyrda had insisted on me coming along for moral support. Everyone else was persuaded by Llewellyn. Besides, Wyrda all dressed up and being photographed was a spectacle no one wanted to miss. Not that my sister isn’t good-looking, but she’s not much for fashion.
I picked a spot in the shade to unpack. It was going to be a long day.