The Crimster
First Post
There are things seen and unseen… and in between are the doors. - Jim Morrison
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born? --W B Yeats
**************************************************
OOC: Each PC has received a letter from Julia Pickman, asking them to the funeral of Alan Pickman, her husband. All of them are friends - professional or otherwise - of Alan (who is a professor of mathematics at UCLA). This is the letter:
Dear Alex,
This is a difficult letter to write for me. Please understand if I am not entirely clear, or if my meaning is muddled. I am not myself.
Alan is gone. Four days ago he suffered a heart attack while at the University, and when the ambulance arrived, it was too late. They pronounced him there. I never got to say good bye to him. I got up early that morning and ran some errands, and now he's dead, and I don't even remember what errands I ran.
God, that last paragraph was very hard for me. I rewrote it a dozen times. I don't think it makes sense. The funeral will be on Thursday, Nov 4th, at 11am. At Forest Lawn Cemetery in Studio City. It won't be long, and there will not be a wake (Alan didn't want one, he once told me). When the services are over, I'd like to ask if you could come back with me to my home. I have a few others showing up as well - all friends of Alan. I'll admit, part of it is to keep an old lady company in such a big house (I'm going to sell it, by the way). But the other part is that I need help going through Alan's office. He has so many... things. I wouldn't know where to begin, what to keep or what to give away. He always was a collector of things, you know. I think with a group, it can be done fairly quickly. I don't know. He says he trusts you.
Please help me.
Julia Pickman
**************************************************
November 4th, 1999
The wind howls around the huddled group. It is a biting wind, unusually cold for the supposedly sunny climate of Los Angeles. Hands grip jackets and pull them tighter in a vain attempt to maintain some body warmth. The sun gives off feeble rays through a thick carpet of clouds, doing little more than lighting everything in shades of gray.
The hillside is deserted, other than the lone assembly of about 15 surrounding an open hole. The priest intones words of hope and faith and the promise of heaven - but the wind them rips away before they are heard. Bouquets of flowers sit on top of the casket, strapped to the finely polished lid. There are a great deal of flowers. Professor Pickman had few friends in his later years, but the ones he did have were loyal to the end.
The mourners that gathered around the grave are an unusual bunch: some young, perhaps still in college; while others are old and gray-haired - no doubt Pickman’s peers at the University. All stare at either the ground or the casket, and quite a few have tears in their eyes or falling down their cheeks. All are wearing the traditional black.
Julia Pickman, Alan’s wife, stands motionless staring at the coffin. She looks older than you remember. In one hand she holds a silk hanky. The other grips the arm of a nearby friend, her knuckles white and strained. Her face is a mask, but from time to time you can see it crack, and her eyes well up.
The priest closes his bible, and looks up at the group. He is an older man, his hair a close cropped silver. Heavy bags sit under his rheumy eyes. Pickman was apparently a friend of his as well. He sighs heavily. When he speaks this time, his voice rises and seems to carry better. Almost as if he himself is tired of the platitudes he just offered - platitudes that never quite seem to satisfy the bereaved.
“As you know, there will be no wake as per Alan’s wishes," His eyes look from person to person. “At this time, I would like to ask if there are any of you who would like to say a few words about our departed friend. I think it appropriate to take some time to reflect on what Alan has given each of us.”
Faces look around for anyone to go up to the podium. Perhaps it is simple fear of public speaking that keeps many sitting. Or perhaps it is the fear that their voice will break. You see the priest - whatever his name is, you forget - look at you with a raised eyebrow.
Anyone up for a little eulogy? (and did I mention I give xp for good roleplaying? =)
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born? --W B Yeats
**************************************************
OOC: Each PC has received a letter from Julia Pickman, asking them to the funeral of Alan Pickman, her husband. All of them are friends - professional or otherwise - of Alan (who is a professor of mathematics at UCLA). This is the letter:
Dear Alex,
This is a difficult letter to write for me. Please understand if I am not entirely clear, or if my meaning is muddled. I am not myself.
Alan is gone. Four days ago he suffered a heart attack while at the University, and when the ambulance arrived, it was too late. They pronounced him there. I never got to say good bye to him. I got up early that morning and ran some errands, and now he's dead, and I don't even remember what errands I ran.
God, that last paragraph was very hard for me. I rewrote it a dozen times. I don't think it makes sense. The funeral will be on Thursday, Nov 4th, at 11am. At Forest Lawn Cemetery in Studio City. It won't be long, and there will not be a wake (Alan didn't want one, he once told me). When the services are over, I'd like to ask if you could come back with me to my home. I have a few others showing up as well - all friends of Alan. I'll admit, part of it is to keep an old lady company in such a big house (I'm going to sell it, by the way). But the other part is that I need help going through Alan's office. He has so many... things. I wouldn't know where to begin, what to keep or what to give away. He always was a collector of things, you know. I think with a group, it can be done fairly quickly. I don't know. He says he trusts you.
Please help me.
Julia Pickman
**************************************************
November 4th, 1999
The wind howls around the huddled group. It is a biting wind, unusually cold for the supposedly sunny climate of Los Angeles. Hands grip jackets and pull them tighter in a vain attempt to maintain some body warmth. The sun gives off feeble rays through a thick carpet of clouds, doing little more than lighting everything in shades of gray.
The hillside is deserted, other than the lone assembly of about 15 surrounding an open hole. The priest intones words of hope and faith and the promise of heaven - but the wind them rips away before they are heard. Bouquets of flowers sit on top of the casket, strapped to the finely polished lid. There are a great deal of flowers. Professor Pickman had few friends in his later years, but the ones he did have were loyal to the end.
The mourners that gathered around the grave are an unusual bunch: some young, perhaps still in college; while others are old and gray-haired - no doubt Pickman’s peers at the University. All stare at either the ground or the casket, and quite a few have tears in their eyes or falling down their cheeks. All are wearing the traditional black.
Julia Pickman, Alan’s wife, stands motionless staring at the coffin. She looks older than you remember. In one hand she holds a silk hanky. The other grips the arm of a nearby friend, her knuckles white and strained. Her face is a mask, but from time to time you can see it crack, and her eyes well up.
The priest closes his bible, and looks up at the group. He is an older man, his hair a close cropped silver. Heavy bags sit under his rheumy eyes. Pickman was apparently a friend of his as well. He sighs heavily. When he speaks this time, his voice rises and seems to carry better. Almost as if he himself is tired of the platitudes he just offered - platitudes that never quite seem to satisfy the bereaved.
“As you know, there will be no wake as per Alan’s wishes," His eyes look from person to person. “At this time, I would like to ask if there are any of you who would like to say a few words about our departed friend. I think it appropriate to take some time to reflect on what Alan has given each of us.”
Faces look around for anyone to go up to the podium. Perhaps it is simple fear of public speaking that keeps many sitting. Or perhaps it is the fear that their voice will break. You see the priest - whatever his name is, you forget - look at you with a raised eyebrow.
Anyone up for a little eulogy? (and did I mention I give xp for good roleplaying? =)
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