The Way She Died

This brief story was inspired by a writing prompt, "Describe how you'll die." A whimsical and semi-fictionalized version of my view as to the best way to go.

Isadora Stone never feared death.

To be clear, she had always lived life in a risk-averse manner aimed at cementing herself on the physical plane for as long, and happily as possible. But, this was due more to her love of living and less for her fear of death. For a woman who could be wildly emotional about a great array of human and existential plights, she was quite logical in regards to death. 

In her mind, there were only a few options you see. If the afterlife was a Puritanical judgment day of Heaven and Hell, her fate was sealed long ago by not getting baptized. Furthermore, she felt she had consciously  lived a good life and if it wasn’t up to par with whatever Divine Being had been spectating the whole time before condemning her to eternal flames, well they sounded like a real Dick anyway. She hadn’t had much patience for judgmental dicks in life, why should she start in the afterlife?

If there was Karma and rebirth she hoped for a fair shake the next go around, and mainly thought that’s what she deserved, assuming her consistent purchase and slaughter of houseplants over the years hadn’t drastically negatively impacted her karmic credit report.

And even if there was nothing, just a blackness and unknowing, Isadora could be at peace with this nonexistence. Though she had very much enjoyed hers, existence is a taxing thing. If at the end there was nothing and her cells were reduced to atoms and re-imagined as a plant or an amoeba or broken down to ATP for a fast-twitch muscle in a scavenging animal, well that suited her just fine. 

When the moment finally came for to her to discover whether she’d be welcomed with open arms by an Anglo-Saxon old man in the sky, tortured for millennia among the realms of other interesting well-intentioned sinners, reborn as a houseplant in a Gen Z-ers modest apartment or silenced for the ages among the stars, she was right where she had always  hoped she would be.

They had assumed this position every night (except for the 10 days a month he lived at the Fire Station while he still worked) for almost 50 years now. She lay on her right side, left leg hugging a body pillow. Marcus snuggled up from behind, one arm underneath her head, fingers interlacing with hers underneath the pillow, the other wrapped tightly around her waist, meeting her other hand, in a loose, warm, sleepy embrace of digits. In their younger years, her right leg would trail back and make a tender hook around his, allowing their feet to dance gently at the foot of the bed where various Border Collies had slept for decades. Although exceptionally fit and healthy well into their geriatric years, this particular posture had to be retired with the arthritis and general joint pain that crept in  as time penetrated their bodies. 

He had been born one day before her on a crisp morning in November 1976. He was premature and Isadora liked to joke that this was a sign of his competitive streak. It must have been going around in-utero news that Isadora was ready to meet the world the next day, and Marcus wasn’t about to let her win the first race. 

But Isadora had never been competitive like him. So that night as her heart begged her for a reprieve from it’s work she wasn’t one to demand they march on. She had always said that his arms were her home, her safety. The last words to tumble from her lips every night, “I love you, Marcus.”

She had meant it every night she had said it, made a point to make it heard even after the day’s when life’s struggles would have allowed her to let the dark air fall vacuous and silent over their heads.

She didn’t know those would be her final words  as she whispered them that night. However, when Marcus woke up the next morning to her still warm, but too still in his arms, he knew that would have suited her just fine. He had never been much of a crier, but loving a woman who was a walking emotional faucet had greatly loosened his own tear ducts over the years. 

He pulled the flesh and bone mannequin that had held his other half  close once more, brushed a white curl off her wrinkled forehead, smiled through the tears scampering loosely down his cheeks, “I was wondering if you’d ever beat me to something.”  He chided as he kissed her forehead once more, lips wet with saline, “But I only ever lived one day on this planet without you...so don’t go gloating you’ve beat me by a mile. See you again soon, Ms. Stone.” 

Although it wasn’t easy for the 4 Washington-Stone children to lose both their parents over the course of 48 hours, they consented it would be hard to imagine it happening any other way. As their eldest daughter Olivia cradled her youngest son against her breast after the ceremony, shushing him gently as she rocked his quivering body back and forth, he whimpers to her chest, “But where are Gigi and Pop-Pop now, mom?”

She held him closer, looked out the window where two hummingbirds perched flash-frozen for several seconds beside each other before flitting out of frame into a cloudless, blue desert sky, “Someplace together baby, someplace together.”

Reviews

[barleygirl]

The premise of this story could've been a snooze-fest & that makes it doubly impressive how you turned this into fairly-riveting read! I had to read it twice becuz your writing style is a little bit crammed with diverging ideas & abundantly complex ramblings which can sometimes distract from the storyline. I enjoy your effusive style, but I also wanted to read it again just to follow the storyline & make sure it makes sense, which it does. This is complex & intelligent writing, might not be widely accessible to those who are not as nimble in reading long complex sentences with interesting but tangled up idea streams, but sometimes we have to be true to our inklings (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[CC]

Thank you again for your thoughtful critique!

I agree with your comment about cramming ideas in. The paragraph that describes how the couple cuddles for example has more detail than needed to understand the message.

Still, as I mentioned in the previous review I write first and foremost for myself, and in this instance I wanted to fully remember/capture the way my husband and I fall asleep at night.

It is good to keep in mind though if I ever do want to improve readability/entertainment value, those intricate details that mean something to me do not necessarily add value to the story for an outside observer.

Again, I appreciate you!

[Franky]

this is fascinatingly deep and heart rendering! I admit, I read it 3 times now and I get more out of it each time. You are thr opposite of me in your writing style. I tend to spell it out too much. You don't and that's good. Itsgood to let the reader fill in the blanks. Well done.