getsprunk
It was raining. It always seems to be raining at funerals. As if the gods themselves wept for the loss of him. The casket wasn't even two feet long. The wood looked dull, even with the raindrops glistening atop it. I kneeled in the mud, my hair dripping water as quickly as my eyes. I reached down to touch it as it lowered, the last time I would touch my son.
The rise was the biggest mistake. If they had never taken up arms, none of this destruction would have come about. If they hadn't listened to the stranger when he came, they would never have been struck down. Was it better to watch them die, rather than be slaves?
She was an ample woman, her long hair flowing in delicate waves. Her glasses were classic in cut. A paisley design decorated them. You would never have guessed she kept a long blade at the base of her neck, beneath her pink sweater.
The static blured her mind, she started, and rose. Where was she? What on earth was that smell? She turned to the source of the noise and found the old stereo leaning against a cracked yellow wall. She started to rise, only to realize she'd been bound.