coffin - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Eliza hated funerals. She detested that the dead have always been buried with useful resources. They have been given food, jewellery, money, slaves; but they are dead, departed, gone. They have no right to and no appreciation for this comfort. And so Eliza set about eradicating this senseless waste. She sewed burlap sacks into seven feet by four feet burial bags and marketed them for twenty dollars each. They were green, cheap and to her, more fitting for a corpse than expensive wood from old growth forests. They were a flop; the mourners thought them undignified. But Eliza was made of stronger stuff and she continued. She sewed a patriotic flag to the top of each bag and printed a rose design on the fabric in dusky pink. She made the draw-string from a soft velvety ribbon and lined the bag with black cloth. The price went up to seventy dollars each. A few sold. Then a few more. Then requests came for over-sized bodies and finally some of her basic models were sold too.
The coffin was pulled from the hearse by six strong men. Yet they almost buckled under it's weight. Their faces that were normally solemn showed the strain and they were quite unable to walk straight. Inside the rosewood veneer, lined with faux-silk, the corpse had gained a few pounds...of gold. It was perfect, just bury the loot with Granny and come back when no-one was looking anymore. It was perfect...so long as they didn't drop her.
The coffin gleamed in the early morning light that streamed through the cathedral windows. It was expertly crafted not to bring comfort to the departed but to soothe living. It was built with love to be the final resting place of one who had been so adored in their lifetime. It's faux-gold handles and polished sheen helped to reduced their trauma to wracking waves that were at least more manageable. They had to see their mother in something of beauty, something that showed what she had meant to them. They laid flowers on the top that would be placed at the gravestone, everything beautiful to hide a reality their hearts could not bare. They brought her here to entrust her to God, to pray that he take good care of her, as in their hearts they knew he would. But all at once heaven seemed so far away and they would be glad of this grave to visit when they needed her. Then too they would bring the flowers and imagine her safe and sleeping in this fine casket.
Alex surveyed the coffin. Dark stained cherry, a cushioned and quilted silky lining. It looked quite comfortable, inviting. But what was the point? His mother was beyond this world now, beyond the realm of mortal comforts. He knew what she'd think of this monstrosity, she'd think it a waste of good wood and material. 'Bury me in a sack and keep the money for the kids she used to say near the end. But his siblings insisted on the best.
Sixty eight years on the earth and this is what her life amounted to; a crudely built six by two and half feet rough wooden box. No lining, no cushioning, no pretence that this was a place to put anything other than a dead and decaying piece of meat and bone. The lid was propped against the painted concrete wall that peeled in the blistering sun, a hammer and a box of large iron nails lay at it's side on the dusty floor. All that was missing was her festering corpse waiting to be laid into the baked earth.
The coffin was so fitting, made of old beer crates as it was. The old git was going to last forever imbibed in so much alcohol. Crawford kicked some dirt on top and looked down her nose, it was worth dirtying her shoe to bid good riddance. She snorted, considering the rough wooden box to be an improvement on his looks, and stalked off to the blacked out limousine.
The coffin was a few old fence panels chopped and reinforced. On top was nailed a small cross and in red lipstick was drawn a heart. It creaked to enter the soil, the rough workmanship threatening to let out the cargo, the ropes holding it together as much as they suspended it.
The mafia boss didn't so much have a coffin as an expensive bed encased in finest old-growth wood. The gold handles gleamed in the sunlight as the pall bearers loaded it into a carriage fit for a fairy princess and the four black horses set off at a slow walk, the inky plumes attached to their heads bobbing in the breeze.
They always say that the miniature coffins are the hardest to carry. But the weight of the coffin couldn't match the heaviness of Madelyn's heart as she sat in the small plastic chair out in the rain. Dressed in her husband's muddy boots and dog tags. The American flag, the only reminder of the cause her husband was a martyr for. Freedom.
It was folded and placed in her quivering hands. A thanks for his services and a defeated plea for forgiveness.