Supressed Grief

Terence, a man who appears to always be in control of his emotions (to the point of seeming emotionless), is taken by surprise when he can't control his reaction to his friend's death.

The look of pain on Jaune’s face was positively pathetic.  The emotions she was experiencing were so strong, she could barely muster up the strength to return the phone to the receiver. Terence, the owner of Amigone Funeral Home was on his lunch break. He hadn’t actually gotten around to eating; as of late, he hadn’t had much of an appetite. Terence rolled his eyes from beneath the paper he was inspecting.  Jaune was one of his most emotional colleagues. Only a moment ago, she had been angrily harping at Terence to hire another licensed funeral director. Now, oceans were flowing from her eyes. His other colleague, Ash Wilson, was equally pitiful. The man’s heart was so fuzzy, the sight of blood sent him sprawling to the ground. The sap, Wilson, tenderly steered Jaune to a chair where she could shake and sob.

                “What happened, Jaune?” Ash asked in a hushed voice. He was kneeling in front of her, stroking her  frizzy hair from her face as tears slowly leeched over her chin. Terence felt ill observing the two of them.

                “My, uh, my best friend’s husband―” Jaune sniffed incessantly. She was also inhaling so sharply, Terence half expected her to gag on her own tongue! Frustrated, Terence slapped the newspaper on the table.

                “Would you spit it out already!” he shouted. His sudden outburst took both Ash and Jaune by surprise. Ash almost appeared disgusted. Terence didn’t blame him; Jaune’s weeping mascara and sweating pink nose were a ghastly sight. She wiped her moist forehead, glowered at Terence, and took in a deep breath.

                “My best friend’s husband accidently choked himself to death,” she whispered. Terence clapped his hands together like a pair of symbols.

                “Excellent!” he cried, jubilantly. “Finally, some action!” Ash’s jaw went flaccid. Jaune stomped out of the room, fists clenched and eyes to the floor. Completely indifferent toward the woman’s feelings, Terence studied the pad of paper on which Jaune had written the client’s information. He tore it off and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket, flashing his eyebrows up at Ash. “We have a body to pick up, Wilson,” he stated.

                The dead man’s name was Yorkdale Buttersworth. Oddly enough, the title made Terence crave pudding. In the coach, Ash sat silently. His lack of verbalization was atypical of his behavior. From the  corner of his eye, Terence inspected him. His wavy wheat colored hair blew softly in the breeze, which emanated from the opening at the top of the window. Every so often he would lick his lips and glance over at Terence as though he wanted to say something but was afraid to. 

                “Whatever you want to say, Wilson, just say it!” Terence said finally, he could feel Ash’s eyes poking him from every direction. Ash sighed and touched his forehead.

                “It’s just…sometimes you’re so heartless,” Ash said. “Back there, Jaune was really upset. Her best friend’s husband died and all you cared about was the location of the corpse.” Terence stared, dead-eyed, at the gravel road before him. He could feel each stone crunching beneath the tires. The turbulence was making him feel nauseous. His head pounded with each pebble that popped.

                “Are you even listening to me?!” Ash shouted. His voice was an agonizing screech in Terence’s ear.

                “Yes! Yes! I’m a calloused villain, I got it!”  Terence snapped. The acrid smell of skunk wafted through Ash’s window. Terence couldn’t help but avert his eyes toward the black and white mush of fur, bubbling on the side of the dusty road. Terence coughed. Now the dust was filtering into the coach. There was a hum as the window screen advanced upward. Ash cleared his throat.

                “You know, Terence, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” he said. Terence coughed again. His throat was feeling very tight all of a sudden. Some how, Terence knew where Ash was going with this line of conversation.

                “Did Jaune set you up to ‘counsel’ me about Bob’s death?” Terence croaked.

                “No,” Ash lied. “But he did die only three months ago.” Terence rubbed his eyes, still keeping one hand on the steering wheel. Now he would have to endure the rest of the ride listening to Wilson chirp on about the importance of grieving and how everyone grieves differently. Ash would accuse Terence of being a minimizer: someone who logicizes their feelings away. Or perhaps he would shake things up and claim that Terence was having a postponed reaction. Either way, Terence didn’t have the patience to listen. Instead, he would let his mind wander.

                Bob Amigone, had been the owner of Amigone Funeral Home. He was an old man with kind blue eyes and a sharp wit. The first time Terence had met Bob was at a job fair, nearly ten years ago.  The congested room had terrified Terence. The lines of students, shuffling papers and flashing fake smiles. All of them were hungry for jobs. They were like wild dogs the way they all swarmed the booths. Terence hated participating in such events. His networking skills were abhorred. His social skills in general were abhorrent. Terence stood at his superior height, like an awkward iceberg in the middle of the sea of flesh, when Bob nudged him in the ribs.

                “I bet you’re a great embalmer,” he said, under his breath. Terence figured he would make a great embalmer. He had always had a knack for the sciences and the arts. How Bob had known had always been a mystery to Terence. The man was incredibly discerning. He somehow seemed to know what kind of person someone was before they even opened their mouth.

                “I believe I could be,” Terence had answered, producing a black polished folder. Bob had chuckled, sliding on a pair of silver framed spectacles. He had licked his fingers before ruffling through Terence’s resume.

                “Terence, you just drove past the house!” Ash exclaimed.

                “Hmm? Oh.” Terence absent-mindedly pulled into a driveway and turned around.

                Mrs. Buttersworth opened the door. Her face was red and wet. She was a doughy woman. Terence thought her name accurately portrayed her appearance, as she looked as though she was filled with pudding. He entered her house without so much as an introduction. The living room was plump. The sofa was plump, the armchair was plump, even the cat on the footstool was plump. It was no wonder, Mrs. Buttersworth was plump.

                “Where’s your husband?” Terence questioned. “Judging by your stucco ceiling, your husband couldn’t have hung himself from in here.” A mixture of shock and pain was welling in Mrs. Buttersworth’s eyes. She melted into the arms of Ash Wilson, who calmly allowed her to lubricate him in snot and tears. Emotions were repulsive. Over Mrs. Butterworth’s mammoth shoulders, Wilson shot Terence a venomous glare. Terence shrugged in response; all he had done was ask a simple question. “Very, well. I’ll just ask your children, then, shall I?” Terence knew the woman had children based upon the greasy little hand prints marking the windows.

                “NO!” the woman screeched. “He, he’s in the shed outside. I-I knew he went there sometimes to―” Mrs. Buttersworth broke down again, tears sopping her blouse. “I-I don’t want my children to know what he did to himself!” she wailed. Ash pulled out an arrangement folder from inside his jacket and, taking the woman by the hand, led her to her kitchen. Figured. Terence was getting the body all by himself.

                “Your children have a right to know how their father died,” Terence declared, before leaving. “The news would likely stop them from playing Russian Roulette.” What happened next, Terence had not seen coming. He turned to fetch the stretcher from the coach, when he heard a series of loud thumps. The last thing Terence saw before tumbling down the concrete was a round, velvety dog face. The horse-sized mutt soared through the air like a Pegasus, knocking Terence over backwards. His head cracked against the edge of a step, and black spots speckled his vision.

                Although Bob had taken a keen interest in Terence during the job fair, he hadn’t contacted Terence for an interview. His year in mortuary school seemed to end as quickly as the light of a candle under a snuff. Terence had sat through seven painful interviews; none of which had amounted to anything. Some of them had been with chatty women who never seemed to stop flapping their gums long enough for Terence to get in a word. Others had been with miserable-faced bald men who, after every one of Terence’s responses, had stared up at him with the beady eyes of an indifferent basset hound.  Terence had done everything to improve his interviewing skills. He had met with his lab professor― a man who took pride in Terence’s academic achievements― for tips on effective body language and eye contact. But no matter how hard Terence tried, he could never seem to coax anyone into giving him a job. Was it his unusual gangly stature that turned people off toward him? His forced smile? The majority of his classmates had managed to obtain a position effortlessly. Terence had been frustrated and bitter. His marks were flawless; and yet his dope-brained colleagues, who barely snuck by, had jobs?! Terence called Bob on the last day of school. Bob had already accepted two interns, but was interested in a third.

                “You’re not much of a people pleaser, are you son?” Bob had asked, after the first ten minutes of the interview.

                “No,” Terence had answered honestly, his eyes fixed on the rich red carpet.

                “But your lab professor tells me you’re the top of his class. You excel in restorative arts and you present your cases as though you wrote the embalming textbook yourself!” The comment had made Terence blink in surprise. Bob had leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee and eyeing Terence from under his glinting specs.  “So why is it that your Orientations teacher tells me you struggle making arrangements? She says the funeral directors you did your mock arrangements with reported you as making them feel uncomfortable. She said they described you as lacking empathy. Why do think that is?” Terence swallowed. His throat had been dry. He had avoided drinking the water that Bob had provided for fear of dribbling it on himself.

                “People are tiresome specimens,” Terence had started, “although I am human myself, I struggle to understand others. I don’t feel the way other people feel, and, therefore, can’t even pretend to comprehend emotions. I cannot put on a caring façade the way others can. All I can do to show I care is embalm―to make the dead appear alive once more.” Bob had laughed at Terence’s response.

                “I believe you, son,” he said. “You truly are a man of integrity. However, there are ways in which you can comfort the grieving without needing to pretend. If you truly do care, all you need to do is let it show. This can be done through actions and words.” At that moment, Bob had stretched out his hand for Terence to shake. Tentatively, Terence took hold of it. “You’re one heck of a piece of work, Terry. But I bet, with a little guidance, you could be great with both the living and the dead. All we have to do is smooth those edges!” Bob had been the best mentor Terence could have ever wished for. He had also been the only person who had ever gotten away with calling him Terry.

                The room was stark white and the lights, blinding. Now Terence knew what it was like to lay upon a prep table. The table, in all actuality, wasn’t a table at all. It was a bed. Terence was in a hospital bed. A plastic tube was connected to his hand, feeding him intravenously from a sac of soluble nutrients.

                “Accursed canine…” Terence swore to himself. The pain in his head was so congesting he could barely hear a thing. A blonde woman in blue scrubs approached his bedside.

                “Do you remember who you are?” she asked. Terence nodded. What an absurd question. Of course he knew who he was! The slight movement of his head, sent the room spinning and his stomach lurching. Terence groaned before heaving all over the blonde nurse. Thanks to the acidic contents of his stomach, the nurse’s scrubs were no longer blue. Moments later, a second nurse entered the room with a mask and a mop. While washing away the blobs of bitter-smelling bile from the floor, the nurse informed Terence that he would be taken by a team of medical professionals for an MRI.

                “Aside from having a nasty concussion, we believe you may have fractured your skull,” she explained, dipping the tendrils of the mop into the bucket of frothy soap water. Terence was not impressed. All this unnecessary attention because a woman was too emotional to control her dog.

                A scan of Terence’s skull unmasked a small split at the base of his head. He was instructed to stay overnight, in case he were to fall asleep and never wake up. Before resting, though, Terence was visited by none other than Ash Wilson. Without his suit on, Terence barely recognized his employee. Ash didn’t appear quite as thin in casual wear. He wore a tan jacket, jeans and scuffed running shoes. From behind his back, he produced a cup of pudding.

                “Hey, Terence. I, uh, brought you some pudding.” Ash slid the extendable table toward Terence’s chin and rested the plastic cup of caramel colored goodness on top. Terence sat up, plucking the metal spoon from Ash’s fingers.

                “Is it Yorkdale Buttersworth flavored?” he moaned, peeling back the wrapper. Ash laughed and assured Terence that Mr. Buttersworth had been removed effectively.

                “After calling for an ambulance, I called Jaune. Jaune called PJ in to help with the removal,” Ash explained. Terence grunted in approval and dipped the spoon into the viscous serum. PJ was one of his best assistants. “I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the concept of karma?” Ash asked. With a spoon of pudding in his mouth, Terence raised an eyebrow at his freckle-faced co-worker.

                “Is that the name of the dog who attacked me?” Terence joked, swallowing the sweet lump. Again, Ash laughed.

                “No, no.” Ash fiddled with a lock of his hair. Something was on his mind. Why was Wilson so afraid of speaking his mind? Did he think Terence would get offended?!

                “Just say it, Wilson,” Terence demanded. “Right now what you’re not saying is far more offensive to me than what you’re about to say.”  Ash straightened his jacket and crossed his arms.

                “The Russian Roulette comment, was that really necessary? I mean, you could have been more sensitive.” The pudding wasn’t nearly as satisfying as Terence had hoped it would be.

                “This pudding is anticlimactic,” Terence declared, completely ignoring Ash’s remark. Ash sighed; his green eyes scanning the naked room. Terence could see the anxiety mounting on his face.

                “They, uh, aren’t going to take your blood are they?” Ash asked. The tendons in his neck distended as he tensed his jaw. Terence would have loved to see Ash encrust the blonde nurse a second time in vomit, but something told him that no amount of reassuring could convince Ash to stay much longer. Terence heaved a sigh.

                “I’m in a hospital, Wilson. In hospitals they’re all about the blood and the urine.” The reply triggered a nervous laugh from Wilson, who then excused himself politely.

Alone and drifting in the dark room, Terence started awake at the sudden rush of cool air. He took a deep breath in. The pressure in his head was phenomenally painful; he felt as though the weight of gravity had increased and was bombarding his skull from all sides. He allowed his heavy head to sink into the pillows and moaned softly before shutting his eyes. A second moan echoed back at him. Terence’s heart jumped in his chest. The air felt as though it had grown cooler. Terence shivered and pulled the blankets up to his chin. Why did every hospital staff insist on dressing their patients in skimpy nighties?! The outfits were essentially nothing more than glorified potato sacks!  They certainly didn’t seal in body heat. Nor were they particularly flattering. Somehow, Terence didn’t think he was placed in one to show off his skinny white legs.

                “Why didn’t you cry at my funeral?” Terence swallowed. The voice belonged to Bob Amigone―only, it couldn’t be Bob Amigone because Bob Amigone was gone! Terence pressed the heels of his hands into his ears. The voice was a delusion. He had suffered brain damage; a delusion made sense.  Terence could feel sweat crawling on his forehead as a white turbulence took shape in the corner of the room.  It swirled like a fog until it resembled the body of Bob Amigone. Terence’s pulse was erratic. His breathing rate had also increased. Now he was hallucinating?!

                “What happened to you, Terry? You look awful!”  The apparition chuckled to itself. “Almost as if you’ve just seen a ghost!” Terence squeezed his eyelids closed. His hands trembled so badly he could hardly keep them compressed over his ears. A chill ran through his body. When he opened his eyes, Terence saw the pale translucent version of Bob standing through the middle of his bed―through the middle of Terence! The man was like a reflection in glass; you can’t see it unless you tilted your head just right. Terence gasped. His blood felt as though it had turned to ice. It was almost as though his body had been plunged into a lake of freezing water.

                “You always were  good at keeping your composure,” the phantom breathed. “Even when your emotions ran deep, you made it seem as though they were nonexistent.” Its voice reminded Terence of the wind, carrying incoherent echoes from people of neighboring towns. “Of course, those parched eyes of yours do help. Jaune always tried to tell me that your colorless eyes and dark hair would be a handsome contrast to some lucky lady. However, it doesn’t appear as though you’ve found yourself anyone.” The words sounded as though they had traveled a very long distance. Still, the voice clearly belonged to Bob. “Now look at you! Your eyes are brimming with fear. You can’t hide from your feelings forever, son.”  Like a vapor, Terence felt its hand on his cheek. “Of course, I didn’t make it easy for you, dropping dead so suddenly….” The voice faded out, like a lost transmission on a cell phone.  Soon the only image left of Bob was his round spectacles. They hovered eerily for a moment and then blinked out of existence. 

                Terence was discharged the next morning. He thought about mentioning his hallucination to one of the nurses, but decided against it. It had probably been nothing more than a vivid dream. Besides, Terence wouldn’t have put it past the blonde nurse to have slipped him something in his IV sac. After all, he had ruined her lovely blue scrubs. Was paranoid an emotion? Often people of a paranoid character were described as “ill.” In that case, paranoid may as well have been an emotion. For Terence, every emotion doubled as an illness.

                “Terence!” From the parking lot of the hospital, a speck of a man hopped up and down, waving his hands fanatically. Terence turned his eyes to the sky in annoyance. It was Ash Wilson. How had that man known Terence would be leaving! “You’re looking better,” Ash said upon Terence’s approach.

                Terence strapped into the passenger’s seat of Ash’s car and said, “Thanks. I’ve been doing something with my hair lately.”

                Back at work, Terence was under the constant supervision of Jaune.

                “Are you okay, hun?” she would ask after every ten minutes. She would then proceed to caution Terence against staying any longer. “I don’t want you getting dizzy. You understand me?” Jaune didn’t really care about Terence. She just wanted him gone for the day so that he didn’t―as she would put it―traumatize the Buttersworth family. Terence had overheard Ash discussing the family’s arrival that day to talk about plans for Mr. Buttersworth’s funeral. Terence didn’t understand how he could possibly traumatize the family anymore than they already were. In all likelihood, Jaune just wanted Terence out of the way so she could be in charge. The woman was perpetually bossy.

“You just worry about making Mr. Buttersworth look better than you right now, okay darling?” Jaune said, as she glided by the prep table. She gave him a wink and a pat on the back.

“Jaune,” Terence called. He couldn’t stand her false pleasantries. Jaune was the kind of person who sugar-coated her worries until her very demeanor turned hideously sweet. She spun at the door to face him. Her smile was so phony it looked as though someone had forcefully stuck it to her face. “I won’t leave this embalming room while your friend and her family are here,” Terence promised. Jaune’s face relaxed and she nodded promptly before leaving.

The embalming machine hummed to life, clicking between pulses. Terence couldn’t get Bob’s voice out of his head.

“Now, a pre-injection will be wise here, Terry, as the man’s vascular system will likely be plugged with clots.  Before a person dies of asphyxiation, the body’s muscles will work harder in a last attempt to breathe. The harder the muscles work, the more heat that is produced within the body. An elevated body temperature causes the blood to coagulate within the vascular system, hampering arterial injection and drainage in the embalming process. The chemicals used in a pre-injection help to rehydrate and lubricate clots. This way, when the formaldehyde is injected into the body, it will not experience any ‘barriers’ which may curb its ability to preserve.”  Terence knew this like he knew his own reflection. This was the very reason Mr. Buttersworth died. While standing on a large cylindrical pail, he looped a thick rope―which was firmly anchored to a wooden beam running along the top of his shed―around his neck. As he choked, his body flailed out and he mistakenly kicked the bucket out from under him, thus, hanging himself.  “This is where the expression ‘kicked the bucket’ comes from.”  Bob’s words echoed in Terence’s ears. They sounded so close, as though he was in the room with Terence. Terence took a break from massaging Mr. Buttersworth’s extremities. He had a splitting headache and was beginning to feel disoriented. At that moment, while Terence’s head pulsated, Ash peaked his nose into the room.

“Pssst, Terence,” Ash whispered. His words sounded all crackly and distorted.

“What.” Terence squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them.

“Mrs. Buttersworth wishes to see you. She feels terrible about what her dog did to you and wants to apologize.” Ash entered the room and gagged when he saw the trail of clumpy blood draining from Mr. Buttersworth’s neck.

“She doesn’t need to apologize,” Terence responded, splashing some water on the line of blood. “As you so tactfully put it at the hospital, I deserved what I got. The balance of the universe has been restored!” Ash sniffed and blinked at the body before him. Terence could tell that he was trying very hard not to faint. “Do sit down, Wilson!” Terence demanded. Ash insisted he was fine.

“What am I suppose to tell Mrs. Buttersworth?” he asked. Terence didn’t appear to have heard Wilson. He was preoccupied with an arm that wasn’t receiving good distribution.

“Try pulling the cannula back, Terry. If you’ve passed the bifurcation, the arterial fluid won’t be circulating through the arm.”  There was Bob’s voice again.

“Terence?”

Groaning, Terence finally replied, “Just make an excuse. It’s noon. Tell her I went with Bob for lunch.” Terence hadn’t even realized what he had said until he saw the concerned expression on Ash’s face.  Terence swallowed. There was a painful lump in his throat. “Uh, never mind. Just tell her I’m busy and give her some of that reassuring crap that you give every sad person.”  Ash laughed uncertainly and then scuttled out of the room, his eyes the size of dinner plates.

When Terence finished the embalming, he cleaned himself up and went to his office to take something for his headache. Why had he mentioned Bob’s name as though the man was still alive? Terence knew he was dead―he had embalmed Bob for crying out loud! The wooden drawer whirred open. Terence shuffled through its contents for the bottle of Advil.

“We always did like to go out to lunch together.”  About to pop the gel capsule into his mouth, Terence froze, paralyzed. “You’d always get some silly tuna concoction or something because you were afraid of consuming beef products!”  The pill bottle clattered to the ground; pills scattered in all directions. Bob’s joyful chuckle vibrated in his skull. “You said you didn’t eat beef because you were afraid that it was tainted with Mad Cow’s disease. And the dairy! You always claimed you were lactose intolerant. Only I knew the truth. You figured if the cow that made the milk was diseased, so was her milk!”  Terence contorted his body in all directions to find the source of Bob’s impossible verbalizations. But he was no where to be found. And why should he be? HE WAS DEAD! The muscles in Terence’s legs suddenly went flaccid and the next thing he knew he was on his knees. He felt like a shell―as though he was hollow and had nothing inside of him for support. Terence didn’t know what to do. He was in so much pain; pain that he couldn’t describe or even begin to understand.

“Please,” Terence begged. “I know you’re dead. I know you’re dead. Don’t do this to me!” The lump in his throat now felt like a watermelon threatening to implode his trachea. Was this what it was like to grieve!?

“Do you miss me?” Bob’s voice was full of sorrow. The sadness in his tone made Terence’s stomach flip. His eyes were so hot they felt as though they were melting. Then the tears came. They burned his face like acid. Terence couldn’t control himself. His body was shaking; his words suffocating in his throat.

“Yes,” he finally managed to murmur. Then he felt hands grip his shoulders. It was Wilson.

“Terence!? What the―” Ash saw his friend’s face for only a moment. There was grief on Terence’s face. Pure, raw emotion. For the first time that Ash could see, Terence was feeling.

The End

               

               

               

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

This story is somewhat experimental. Most of my work leans toward the lighter side. I tried to be a little more serious here (this being said, I didn't completely cut out the humour). Let me know what you think of this. Like I said, it's experimental so I am open to honest suggestions/ opinions. Thanks!

Reviews

[jjwilbourne]

This was really good. I love how you handled making a character like Terence sympathetic despite him being somewhat cold.
The humor in this is landing well and I felt like I got a really good introduction to the characters and some of their background.
I also love the medical chops you're showing off. I'm not sure if you studied medicine or if you do a lot of research either out of hobby or just for the story but those touches really help bring the story to life.
I'll be reading more.

[Margo Seuss]

I am genuinly confused with the reactions I'm getting over this story. Some people love it, others don't get it. On Writerscafe, I seem to be getting a lot of people who like this. But on another writer's site, I've gotten a number of people who thought it was boring, and ineffective. I have since created another draft where the embalming jargon is kept to a minimum (to reduce boredom). Haha, I'm in the funeral industry. This is why I have the embalming jargon.

[jjwilbourne]

Interesting. The opinions on writerscafe are generally positive. So that may be a part of the issue.
For me, I dont typically read something like this, so for me its a lot of fun.
I can see why someone would think it boring. I think you expect it to be funnier than it actually is. The approach seems have a more subtle and dark humor. Perhaps it has more to do with the story arcs themselves? The characters and setup seems fine.

[Margo Seuss]

I loved the story! I felt your ability to introduce me to your characters and show case them as unique and individual as the are superb. Your have a gift for detail without boredom; you tell and sow just enough..The actual plot was strange, different and I liked it... I like reading that which is NOT generic to everyone else' s. AND I shall return... Bravo..

[Margo Seuss]

I'm so thrilled you enjoyed this! I must say it is slightly different from what I usually write. My usual writings are not as serious! Thank-you for reading and reviewing!

oh wow just seen my typos lol. Yes... I did enjoy it very much....

[Taylor_McCutcheon]

It was very odd reading an Ash character without it being my Ash haha. I enjoyed this. Your characters came to life and I thought it was very well written. My only complaint would have to be the font style, but thats personal preference. :)

[Margo Seuss]

I used this font simply because I found it easier to read! Glad you enjoyed it. Haha. Yes it is odd reading about another person's character who has the same name!

[Taylor_McCutcheon]

You're right. It is easier to read. lol

[SweetNutmeg]

I like this more serious piece. (I still like the comedic stuff, just in a different way.) You conveyed Terrence's scorn for emotions so well, I found myself agreeing with him in a small part of myself. When he finally does feel something, it made me ache. You really moved me.

As much as I appreciated the serious part of the story, my silly side absolutely loved the woman's name and how it inspired the desire for pudding.

A couple of technical things...

“Did Jaune set you up to ‘council’ me about Bob’s death?” Council is a noun designating a ruling body, counsel is a verb meaning to advise or guide.

"His networking skills were abhorred." I am not 100% sure you mean abhorred, maybe you mean abhorrent? It is a fine distinction. Abhorred is a verb, that is what the people did, they abhorred the skills. Abhorrent is an adjective and describes what his skills were in essence, that his skills universally inspired abhorrence.

You did an awesome job with Terrence's voice. I really could put myself in his shoes. The comic bits woven in worked very well, not detracting from the serious subject. I was able to laugh and also feel an ache for Terrence.

Well done, I really enjoyed it.

Courtesy of the Constructive Critics Group
http://www.writerscafe.org/groups/Constructive-Critics/11057/

[Margo Seuss]

Thanks so much for your input! Lord. I feel as if I will never be truly able to grasp this crazy English language!!!!

[SweetNutmeg]

Haha, I don't think anyone really grasps the English language. It is crazy and inconsistent and every word seems to have 12 synonyms that mean *almost* the same thing, but not quite. It is a very rich language because of that; you can be very precise in expression based on a single word choice. But it is totally insane and mixed up and confusing to pretty much everyone. You're definitely not alone.

[bob, small b. aka invs]

i read this story because from your opening comments about it, it seemed like it would be very different for you. it was. and i really enjoyed it. your writing is consistently well done and interesting, and i love your sense of humor which is both bright and dark at the same time. this story reminded me of two other stories, both of which i love. one, it's almost a rewriting (at least in spirit) of A Christmas Carol. the visitation of a ghost and the turning around of a seemingly heartless protagonist. it also reminded me a bit of The Loved One by Evelyn Waugh, a dark humored novel that takes place in and around a funeral parlor. i seem to be rambling.... well done. i enjoy coming back to your page and reading. i may not always comment, but this is one of my favorite places to just come and read. thanks for sharing with us.

[Margo Seuss]

Wow! Thank-you so much! I really appreciate it when you do comment! Comments are what keep me writing! I didn't even think of the Christmas Carol when I wrote this! The ghost idea just came to me. You are right though. I'm so thrilled you enjoy my work!

[ANM]

Very well written we are seeing more ofTerence , emotion can be drawn from unlikely sources with the right catalyst!

[Margo Seuss]

Indeed! I'm glad you enjoyed it.

[ANM]

I did and you are welcome!