It took Tim sometime before he accepted the fact that his father was already gone. A week before the funeral, he began to wander all over the house, depression all over his face.
He gathered his entire father’s clothing and placed them in a red box at the basement. He could not just see anything that belonged to his father. He even took off his father’s portraits that hung above the TV at the living room, and tore it. Whenever he looked at his father’s cheerful smile and his magnificent moustache that made him look like Turkish emperor, Tim felt sadness tear at his bones. Images of his father as the flames ate at his body haunted him in his dreams.
Mirkanda tried to avoid Tim as much as she could. Whenever Tim came and sat besides her, trying to offer his apology, she would smile, pat him and run to her room.
Two days before the funeral she knitted some of Mr. Denver is black suits to fit Tim. She handed them with a smile, like a loving mother. “Try this out. It’s for you Tim”
Tim had never seen mirkanda treat him this way. It was as if she suddenly started to love him, like the death of his father brought balance to their relation.
As he looked into the mirror, twisting his waist and making sure that the sleeve did not look baggy, he felt like his father’s soul was dwelling in this suit and whispering more secrets about his father into his ears.
However, secrets were not what occupied Tim’s mind the day of his father’s burial. He strolled down the black asphalt with his father’s neighbors and friends all around him. He walked near to mirkanda and frowned at the sight of the procession of hearse that was pulled by black horses.
At the cemetery, the saint stood with everyone surrounding him In a circle. He read some verses from the bible concerning the dead and everyone ended the listening with a soft amen followed with sigh.
Then three hefty men walked forward carrying Denver’s tomb and placed it over an iron frame, implanted in a rectangular hole. Tears trickled down Tim’s cheeks as he watched his father descend slowly into the ground. Then these men came back to refill the hole with brown mud.
Tim wished he could jump down, open the grave and place one last kiss over his father’s cheeks.
Two hours after the burial Tim stood in front of the black headstone. ‘Denver wood. 52. Loving husband and father,”
Mirkanda placed her bony hand over Tim’s shoulder and raised her head to overcast sky. ‘May the constellations watch over his soul’
As Tim kneeled over his father’s grave and bid him farewell, a man in a brown suit loomed from behind a tree. His hands were dipped into his pocket. He strolled towards them, his face expressionless whatsoever. Then he threw a red rose over Denver’s grave.
“Good luck boy” he said, not turning his face looking away.
It took Tim some time to get what the man said because he said it so fast.
Mirkanda smiled and nodded at the man who sauntered away to the borders of the cemetery and wheeled off in a red Mercedes.
“he’s called kerf’ Mirkanda said,” his one of your father’ best friends.”
Tim got to his feet and kicked at yellow leaves “I want to leave, let’s go.”
On their way back home, mirkanda walked in her slow, cold manner.
Tim walked at twice her speed, his black leather shoe thumping against the asphalt like a soldier’s procession.
Halfway back home, mirkanda stopped. Suddenly, like she had seen deadly monster running in front of her.
It took Tim some seconds before he realized that mirkanda had stopped.
“Come on” he said, standing a few steps earlier. “I’m hungry”
She did not reply. Her eyes remained staring in a straight line, and her body stiff and straight.
“Let’s go” Tim tugged at her hand.
“My boy, I have to tell you a secret.” She said, “a secret that hurts me on the inside” her eyes lowered to meet Tim’s gaze. “I’m not human. I’m an imp”
(it's still unedited , and it's actually aimed for ages 9-12)
He gathered his entire father’s clothing and placed them in a red box at the basement. He could not just see anything that belonged to his father. He even took off his father’s portraits that hung above the TV at the living room, and tore it. Whenever he looked at his father’s cheerful smile and his magnificent moustache that made him look like Turkish emperor, Tim felt sadness tear at his bones. Images of his father as the flames ate at his body haunted him in his dreams.
Mirkanda tried to avoid Tim as much as she could. Whenever Tim came and sat besides her, trying to offer his apology, she would smile, pat him and run to her room.
Two days before the funeral she knitted some of Mr. Denver is black suits to fit Tim. She handed them with a smile, like a loving mother. “Try this out. It’s for you Tim”
Tim had never seen mirkanda treat him this way. It was as if she suddenly started to love him, like the death of his father brought balance to their relation.
As he looked into the mirror, twisting his waist and making sure that the sleeve did not look baggy, he felt like his father’s soul was dwelling in this suit and whispering more secrets about his father into his ears.
However, secrets were not what occupied Tim’s mind the day of his father’s burial. He strolled down the black asphalt with his father’s neighbors and friends all around him. He walked near to mirkanda and frowned at the sight of the procession of hearse that was pulled by black horses.
At the cemetery, the saint stood with everyone surrounding him In a circle. He read some verses from the bible concerning the dead and everyone ended the listening with a soft amen followed with sigh.
Then three hefty men walked forward carrying Denver’s tomb and placed it over an iron frame, implanted in a rectangular hole. Tears trickled down Tim’s cheeks as he watched his father descend slowly into the ground. Then these men came back to refill the hole with brown mud.
Tim wished he could jump down, open the grave and place one last kiss over his father’s cheeks.
Two hours after the burial Tim stood in front of the black headstone. ‘Denver wood. 52. Loving husband and father,”
Mirkanda placed her bony hand over Tim’s shoulder and raised her head to overcast sky. ‘May the constellations watch over his soul’
As Tim kneeled over his father’s grave and bid him farewell, a man in a brown suit loomed from behind a tree. His hands were dipped into his pocket. He strolled towards them, his face expressionless whatsoever. Then he threw a red rose over Denver’s grave.
“Good luck boy” he said, not turning his face looking away.
It took Tim some time to get what the man said because he said it so fast.
Mirkanda smiled and nodded at the man who sauntered away to the borders of the cemetery and wheeled off in a red Mercedes.
“he’s called kerf’ Mirkanda said,” his one of your father’ best friends.”
Tim got to his feet and kicked at yellow leaves “I want to leave, let’s go.”
On their way back home, mirkanda walked in her slow, cold manner.
Tim walked at twice her speed, his black leather shoe thumping against the asphalt like a soldier’s procession.
Halfway back home, mirkanda stopped. Suddenly, like she had seen deadly monster running in front of her.
It took Tim some seconds before he realized that mirkanda had stopped.
“Come on” he said, standing a few steps earlier. “I’m hungry”
She did not reply. Her eyes remained staring in a straight line, and her body stiff and straight.
“Let’s go” Tim tugged at her hand.
“My boy, I have to tell you a secret.” She said, “a secret that hurts me on the inside” her eyes lowered to meet Tim’s gaze. “I’m not human. I’m an imp”
(it's still unedited , and it's actually aimed for ages 9-12)