‘brains’ was meant to have multiple meanings: brains as in the brain mater or brains as in ‘intellect.’
Short Story / John Doe
After the autopsy was performed, surgeons concluded that John died from suffocation, not an overdose. He was buried alive in a small plot next to a community college, where most unnamed are given a dignified place to decompose. His body was recuperated by a crew of nauseated ditch diggers who uncovered a few bodies before they found the sunken and crusted flesh of our hero, who was identified by his ex-wife, handkerchief in her delicate hand, his legal will in her mind. When asked by the locally bored news anchor about her journey to find the ex husband, Britney M, red eyed and embarrassed at her running mascara (lest her younger and less experienced lover would see), replied in a somber tone:
“When he didn’t show up at little Bobby’s 7th birthday party, I knew something was wrong. He always came dressed up as Mr. Clown Man and sang him his special birthday song, you know? How could he die on his son’s birthday? How sick is that!” The bored news anchor handed her a tissue from a box his assistant had ready at hand.
“He left on the weekend to visit his mother at the home, but he hadn’t called me back to tell me what he bought Bobby for his birthday, which he used to always run by me first.” Britney held her sob, looking to the sky as if a million tissues should fall on her and cover her exposed body from the moist humiliation she was undergoing. She called the police when John’s message machine reached its limit; a lonely red bulb flickering in a penthouse apartment, two floors, two bed rooms, a large marble kitchen, a leather couch, a plasma, and a single tooth brush. A man matching the ex’s description was found in an alley, apparently over-dosed and dirty, stripped from his clothes, wallet stolen. He was kept for three days, but the mortuary, which had just reached full capacity, underwent some inconvenient decisions and disposed of the John Doe before he was examined, but only after a thorough photo session as mandated by the investigations department. His mother’s Alzheimer couldn’t recognize the body in the photographs. Instead, she held the detective’s hand and recited love poems.
Whether or not John was on some heavy drugs that night is irrelevant. His drug induced coma could have dragged him from a party to the middle of a street and to an alley, but it certainly did not kill him. Doctors killed him, and it was by their shaky hand that he fell into a premature cold and dark ditch, alongside criminals, hobos, drug addicts, and other people with no names; from ash to ash, dust to dust, shit to shit. Ironically, it was also in this darkest ditch where he received his brightest revelation, which lasted a brief 6 minutes before he suffocated on the dirt of his own words. The area above him lit up in fireflies that had eaten the snails, which had eaten the worms which had eaten the dirt which ate away at the flickering breath of John.
What John felt were a mere 6 minutes could have been a single second or a full hour. It didn’t matter. As death approaches, the body begins to lose its unnecessary functions; among the first, its sense of time. We know that at least 6 minutes worth of coherent and meaningful thoughts were produced by a delusional John. For the first scattered minute, a full awareness of the situation took place. His eyes commenced a blinking motion, although they could not open or close, since dirt closed them in. His chest began to struggle with what he conceived to be a heavily woolen bed comforter, worn on a scorching summer day. Slowly, as if emerging from a dream (or to a dream), the hairs of his arm began to feel the crumbs of rock and dirt that lay on them. His orifices began to receive consciousness from what felt like an external push. His toes woke up and wiggled through his son’s chocolate birthday cake.
“I am blind,” said John in his mind “I am mute, I am deaf…” His fingers now twiddled the spongy birthday cake which encompassed his body in an atrocious sandwich; beneath him, a body; above him, another body. They were his sepulcher of flesh, which was free of cost. Right above his cake’s layer, was a bouquet of plastic flowers left for the pregnant woman who was about six feet to his right; both mother and boy aborted. The gruesome situation was not yet to his understanding. Instead, he was stuck in a half dream, remembering nothing but the 4 little pills he had in uncertain hands. He was waking up from a deep darkness, but, when did he go to sleep? His bed, his pillow, his late night chocolate milk were absent. He tried to move his hands to remove the blanket of cake where he lay cooked inside, but his hand was numb. He could locate it in his mind, but the function of movement failed to reach the tips of his frozen fingers. He was beginning to understand that something was wrong, since people weren’t generally baked into large birthday cakes, unless there was some sort of giant with a taste for human flesh.
John’s mind began to race, his brains sweating, accelerating his heart and his desire for fresh air, which became thinner and thinner as he gulped soil into his aching lungs. His body began to shut itself down, limb by limb, hair by hair; but before the very tip of his pinky finger slumbered, a wet and cool wiggle flicked it as it raced through the dirt towards John’s. “What was that?!” He thought.
“Oh? I didn’t realize there was still a live one here! How do you do?” The earthworm extended its limb towards John’s dirt encrusted nails, expecting a shake.
“A live one? What are you talking about?” John was calmer than a dead man.
“Well, you are in a common grave, don’t you know? Must be some sort of drug addict, am I correct?” John laughed, but laughed in a sort of incomprehensible and inappropriate way that is typical for those who are losing their mind. He answered in the manner that anyone in his position would answer; with a question:
“Am I dead?”
“Oh, God heavens, no! It’s awfully annoying to speak with a dead man. I rarely do so.” John managed to smile through the thick dirt, a grin that remained on his face when he was examined by his ex-wife and his mother’s Alzheimer’s. The earthworm scurried by to come closer to John’s still palpitating face.
“When am I going to die?” John inquired, a child raising his hand in a classroom. The worm, worried for the mental ease of his patient, listened and answered, although reluctantly:
“Never…you’ll never die. Have you seen a little red stone around here? I must have misplaced it last time I passed by.”
“I haven’t seen your little red stone. Was it pretty?” John was becoming senile. The worm seemed sullen.
“Oh yes, it was a lovely little red stone. I have never seen such a stone in all of my years. It was a stone to wear, a stone to give away, a stone to keep forever. You know what I’m talking about, friend?”
“No…no, I don’t.” John replied, still grinning. He remembered his shiny red tooth brush. “I used to have a shiny red toothbrush. I kept it next to my sink, in case I needed to brush me teeth with it immediately after pissing. It was a good tooth brush. I hadn’t changed it in 5 months, although people say it should be changed at least once a month. Say, I think I should buy it a new glass to put it in.” The earthworm, while looking around for his red stone, slid across John’s belly, towards his chest.
“Ahaha! That tickles! You have a very gelatinous finger.” John began to laugh intensely once again.
“That is not a finger, it is my body.” The earthworm ate its way all around John.
“Say, you have a mighty small body.”
“No sir, I believe it is you with the obviously large body. What do you do all day with such a complex piece of meat?”
“Well, for the most part, I am either sitting or making lines, but mostly, I am sitting. I sit in front of my television, on my car seat, on my desk at work, in the movies, at restaurants, on toilets. Yes, I believe most of the time I sit and then I lie down.” The worm was disgusted.
“Sitting and lying! For Christ’s sake! Not much of a stretch, now is it? Is your meat at least edible? Tell me it’s good for something!”
“No, no. Humans don’t eat other people’s meat.” John replied mechanically, his thoughts were becoming more and more real, replacing the materialness of his flesh with letter magnet shapes in plastic. He spelt it out on his refrigerator. As he turned, he found himself back in his kitchen. Sitting across from him on a high stool, was an overgrown pink earthworm. John was not surprised by his visitor. Instead, he pulled out some fresh lemonade from the fridge and poured out some for the two, three cubed ice in each glass.
“Thanks,” said the earthworm, dipping his long face into the glass. John, sipping the last few drops of the icy fresh drink, couldn’t contain his question:
“So, if people never die, then what happens to them when they go in their graves?” The earthworm looked aside, giving himself time to ponder. He looked through John’s apartment and saw that he was rather successful. He browsed briefly through old photographs of his sister, his mother, and his ex-wife. He noted John’s large collection of ceramic elephants and his starved book shelf. Among his few books: Idiot’s Guide to Gardening.
“When people die, friend, they go to a place where everything they ever wanted to do becomes possible. People are reunited with their wives, they become children if they like, or they have countless amounts of drugs and sex without any repercussions. Some are able to fulfill their dreams, like…gardening and things like that.” John’s eyes lit up and blinked once through a heavy stream of dirt.
“Really! Oh, boy! I’ve always wanted to have my own garden! But wait, will it all be alive? Could things really grow in the afterlife?”
“Of course, everything is alive in heaven! Alive.” John’s mouth dropped. He stood aside, enamored with the idea of a quaint little garden, like the one where he toiled in with his sweating mother, seeds in her wrinkled hand, her silver head glistening in an eternal Sun.
“Johnny,” his mother called him by name, a throat covered in drops of honey, “could you please pass the water cup?”
“Yes mommy.” Johnny picked up the sweating Styrofoam cup, water rushing through its little holes. Johnny spent that afternoon with his mother, wearing his grown man’s business suit, and eating home-baked chocolate chip cookies. He promised his mother that when she was no longer able to keep it herself, he would plant for her a garden of gardenias. The seeds were kept under his pornographic magazines in his sock drawer. He took a moment and visited his room to make sure that they were still there. With the bag of seeds in hand, he returned reverently towards his earthworm friend, put his arm around him and gave him a firm buddy pat-in-the-back.
“You know, if I knew heaven was so nice, I would have died a long time ago!”
“Too bad it’s the last thing most of us do.”
~LVR
You need to log in to urbis or create an urbis account to review this writing.
Reviews
Sort Reviews by Newest | Oldest | Highest Quality | Lowest Quality | Newest Comments |
Curtastrophe reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
The tone in which this piece is written is whimsical and unselfconscious. This is a huge difference in the way most stories written about death portray their protagonists. I found the most interesting part of the story to be the six minutes that John is buried alive for. Unfortunately, it takes a little too long to get to this point.
I would suggest telling the reader upfront that John was buried by careless doctors who thought he was dead because of a drug overdose. They way it’s written now in the first paragraph is a bit confusing upon initially reading it.
”...mother’s Alzheimer…” This is technically incorrect because the mentally degrading condition can’t make decisions or observations.
Also the narration perspective is a bit inconsistent. It switches from the learn-ed tone of a doctor or perhaps a forensic detective in the first half to the POV of what actually happened when John was buried. – His talk with the earthworm, his observations about life after death, etc.
I really liked the bit about the fireflies eating the snails and so on down the food chain.
This story needs quite a lot of editing for grammar and sentence structure. It also is overly wordy in parts. But you can fix this when you hopefully revise it.
What I found most effective about this piece is the way it twists the reader’s perception of their view towards John. At first it’s of tragedy and sympathy. But as the story ends, it becomes more optimistic and almost humorous in parts. John accepts his death and is almost happy because of it. Thanks for sharing.
-Curt
- add/view comments (0)
zoomstunna reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
Its hard to critique because its so bizarre. I just didn’t find the premise believable. The mortuary had him buried after three days because it was too crowded. I just don’t think they would risk going to jail to free up space.
lluuiiissaa reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
instantly youve brought the reader into this story and you’ve set it up without the use of a boring intro that many stories have. i liked the description of the bored anchor man, very fitting. i loved the image of britney looking up at the sky with the tissues falling down and that bit. i could picture it perfectly. loved the phrase “dirt of his own words”. loved the image of the mother and son being aborted, very cleverly put. the way youve written this actually gives the readers a sense of being buried alive and suffocating which is a great feat. the part where he’s talking to the earthworm adds a sense of comic relief in a sick way. its not funny persay but its strange enough for a confused smile. you have a gift for putting the reader into the situation and you can describe the scene well enough so that the air of the scene transcends into the readers own home. i couldnt help but laugh when the earthworm dipped his face in the lemonade to drink it. nice touch. i loved the ending. i also liked how you didn’t put john in pain as he died and i liked your concept of heaven. the whole thing was very creative and i really enjoyed reading it. and the very last line = perfect.
jhmckeogh reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
A nice little piece. Couple things. I wanted to know the significance of the red stone. Why mention it at all? Is it magical. Does it signify something. Why would the worm need a pretty red stone. The dialogue between the worm and the hero, got a bit confusing. I needed a little bit more of who was talking. A lot of it was inferred by context, but not all. Can be fixed with “John said, the worm said, he said.. etc”
I liked how you personified alzheimers. I think you can make the end “heaven” portion a bit more intricate.
Also, i think you could clear up a bit more exactly how he ended up in the mass grave. I was a little confused by that as well.
Cheers,
James
MARCH reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
Okay at first I was like what’s going on. Then once I slowed down and really started reading this turned out to be an awesome story. I liked how you started out what them talking about his death and everything. I could feel how it was to be stuck in the grave, because of your description. At first I thought the worm was another dead person. I like him talking to the worm and them becoming friends. Dont wont to waste anymore of your creds, but good job with this.
DWVickers reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
This is a delightful, if somewhat macabre, little story. Very creative. I don’t think I’ve read anything quite like it.
I miss having the plot reach some sort of climax, though—it trails along and then ends. Perhaps that’s what you intend (an ironic mirroring of your character’s fate) but it left me a bit unsatisfied.
Overall very good writing. I enjoyed you quirky humor especially.
zionicyouth87 reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
I must say I really enjoyed this story. I wouldn’t change anything in it. The grammar can use some tweaking but other than that you do a very good job with the characters and the plot. Keep up the good work.
chelly reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
I have never heard of “brains sweating” and if they could, we only have one so I guess it should say” his brain sweating”.
Other than that I liked your story, I can see John in his delirious state trying to make sense of what was going on. Good job, hope to read more of your work.
hypatia reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
This is like ‘Alice in Wonderland’ for adults. It read like a magical journey where you are unaware you are reading. How clever of you to write something macabre and yet give us something light, amusing and witty. I love your portrayal of death, you take away the sting. Your writing is unique and so well written it is effortless to read.
God heavens – did you mean Good?
BeccathePromoMami reviewed Version 1 -
Read 100% of the Item
The title and the first few lines were immediately captivating. The way you refer to the character as JOHN establishes a relationship and still allows for the disturbing anonymity. Very deliberate and well done, in my opinion.
There was good characterization of the story’s supporting characters – a jaded cast of those feigning interest in John’s plight.
From there, the piece only gets more enjoyable. John’s shifting perception of what’s happening to him is charming, disturbing, and whimsical all at once – who knew that was possible? The thought of being buried alive is sickening (I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening here), but the character’s almost infantile interpretation, more than likely a drug induced interpretation, really alleviates a lot of that feeling for the reader.
I had no problem keeping up with the transitions, though I did find some of your descriptions a little raw – in need of some polish. The part where the reader is first introduced to the idea that he’s gaining consciousness while buried is a bit jarring. In that paragraph, there is a going back and forth between his present circumstances and the series of actions that got him there – involving pills – that was a bit confusing to follow. I had to read it twice to make sure I was getting what I was supposed to get.
The ending was just the punchline this story needed. I was dreading the story taking a turn for the worst – into macabre or morbid territory, but that ending was very satisfying.
This was a great read. What a creative approach to what most writers would turn into a dark and disturbing piece. It was very innovative and a pleasure to read.
Showing 1 - 10 of 10
Review item
Add to favesCreator
Relevant Links
Item Stats
GENERAL
10 Reviews 2 Comments
Version 1
Latest Activity: 7 months ago
REVIEW QUEUE
Appeared in Queue: 71 Times
Skipped: 1 Time
Ratings & Rankings
