The Down Collector

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Funerals are odd ducks, aren't they? I mean they bring out the oddness in people. And odd people. Probably ducks too. I mean if the burying place is near a pond it's likely to attract its fair share of ducks, wouldn't you say? Like ponds and ducks, funerals bring people together, who weren't all likely to come together normally. People who might be a little raw from those primal emotions of loss, sorrow, anger, and guilt thrust into this unfamiliar moment. It's like dropping wild dogs, excuse me ducks into an MMA octagon, I tell you. Everyone's personality flaws are magnified, exaggerated to the point of near-parody. God help you if let yourself laugh in that moment though. People can do that in retrospect, looking back and asking, “Why did I/we/you do that?” But hurt feelings? Those run deep and aren't forgiven lightly, and if they are forgiven then they're not likely to be forgotten. If the feather's aren't up, then they're everywhere, a veritable blizzard of down.

All ready to be harvested and resold.


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