“The Corpse in the Blue Casket,” Fiction by Kaylie Frede Detached, Photograph by Alyssa McRoberts……………………11

The Corpse in the Blue Casket Fiction by Kaylie Frede

I stare blankly at the corpse that lay in front of me. The corpse in the blue casket. The corpse that I once knew.

Even though I knew it wouldn’t happen, I half expected the corpse to sit up and open his eyes. A smile and laugh would erupt from his mouth. But nothing happened. He lay as still and silent as stone; a corpse.

Everyone around me moves and whispers quietly as I stand still. A cross lay on the lid, a rosary in the corpse’s hands, and an ironed suit on his body. He wasn’t even religious.

A video plays in the background with pictures sent in from friends and family. Mostly from mine. Soft music accompanies it to fill the space between the whimpers and whispers.

The world moves slowly and steadily, but my heart beats through my chest. After what feels like a decade, I feel a gentle hand on my back pushing me along to keep the line moving.

Cookies and punch wait at a table across the room as if this were a solemn prom. It feels almost disrespectful. Beside it stands a garbage can filled with plates, crumbs, cups, and tissues. About twenty tissue boxes are scattered across the rooms for people to use.

The line of people raps around the halls, through multiple rooms; people laughing about warm memories, crying for loss. Familiar faces pass in a blur as I’m pushed out of the room, outside into the cool spring morning. I walk to our van down the street. All I hear is my shoes clicking on the cement.

The world seems distant as the van starts up and we head home, away from the corpse.

The last time the corpse, Allen, talked to me was on the phone. And I almost let it go to voicemail because of a petty fight the day before. But

the next call I got the following day, from his mom, was the worst call I’ve ever experienced.

When you pick up the phone and somehow you just know something is wrong before anything is even said, your stomach drops. The world came to a stop as the words came through the speaker. It felt like every nerve in my body was being fired at the same time, yet also like nothing was inside me. A feeling so overwhelming that it feels like nothing at all. And it all happens in a second. But what happens after is worse because I begin processing what’s being said to me. My body begins to shake as sobs begin to break through the confirmations I give Allen’s mom.

I don’t even remember hanging up the phone, but I remember calling Nic shortly after. She never met Allen, had no connection to him, but I needed to tell someone else. I needed someone to tell me I was making this up. But she had no way of telling me the lie I wanted to hear. She didn’t know Allen.

So, I stayed in the chair I received the call in until I had nothing left to cry. Then I went to bed.

The five minute drive home feels like thirty as my eyes gaze heavily on the century old houses I know all too well.

We always talked about these houses; how old they were, the crazy or bland colors the owners painted them, the obligatory rocking chairs on the porches, the cute flower gardens some had, which ones we would want to live in when we were older. When we were older. If we got older.

I felt my stomach start to churn again as it finally sank in where I just left. The nausea moved to the rest of my body, making me feel like muck. And all I could do was stare at the old houses passing by.

“I thought you might like to visit it before I leave,” Allen took my hand and walked me over to the large tree with a tire swing.

plan.

We were out of high school now and he was throwing his own going away party; a party for two. He was only going to be living two hours away but he made it seem like a cross country move.

Allen had taken me to visit the place we first met when we were seven. It was the tire swing outside of Mrs. Harwood’s house. She had a giant old house that she turned into a bed and breakfast after she was widowed. Her yard became a playground for the neighborhood children. And we were some of those neighborhood children who played there.

Seven year old Allen had just moved in across the street, but he already knew where to find the best places to play in the area. He was always like that, somehow knowing all the information before he even got started.

“Go on, get on it!” Allen beamed with joy.

Back in my bed, still thinking about the old houses, all I can listen to is silence. Everything is too loud, but the silence I’m listening to is deafening. I let that silence fester.

Whenever someone dies people tell you “they would want you to be happy, move on.” But I’m sure Allen would just want me to be alive. That’s all he would ask of me, that I make it one more day without him, and then another. And I know it gets easier with time, but grief is like the ocean. The ocean of grief ebbs and flows bringing sudden intensity before returning to somewhat normalcy. That's the hardest part. Sometimes this flow of grief catches you off guard. Just when you begin to feel fine, one thing changes it and then it’s all downhill from there.

But I got up today and did the unthinkable. I saw a corpse of someone I love. And it hurts like hell, but here I am. I made it through. I made it through all of the crying people and the mountains of flowers and the old houses. And that's all Allen would ask me to do.

Detached, Photograph by Alyssa McRoberts

Movies and Rollercoasters

Poem by Rachel Laughlin

Georgie, run away from the sewer Danny, don’t go into room 237 Carrie, don’t go to prom I know what will happen I know the horror that awaits It’s inevitable And I can’t do anything to change it

Don’t worry, Harry Potter defeats Voldemort Don’t worry, Chris Gardner gets the job Don’t worry, Jo March gets her book published I know what will happen I know the excitement that awaits It’s inevitable And I can’t do anything to change it

My life is a movie I can’t change the outcome But I don’t know what’s coming Wishing I could change it when my friend has to watch her father die Never knowing I would meet people I love so much What horrors and exciting events will arrive? What fate awaits me?

I’d like to believe in happy endings Where Daniel wins the fight and George discovers it’s a wonderful life But what if they end in loss like Hazel Grace losing Augustus Waters? Movies like my life are rollercoasters They go up and down with unexpected turns