Marcus? A Mystery in progress

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Let It Bleed Challenge: Mystery

5 years almost to the day, I ran away from home and found myself here, yet I still haven’t grown used to November’s cold.
A late customer stopped in just before I locked the door, tarried among the shelves before finding some old volume of poetry. I hated closing late, walking home in the dark but holiday months are always slow and I was grateful for the sale.
By then it had begun to rain and of course I was unprepared. 5 blocks later, as I entered the building, my coat was heavy and damp brown leaves clung to my leather boots.
I grabbed my mail then headed up the 3 flights. Inside I tossed the keys and mail on the table, dropped my wet clothing at the door and hurried to towel my hair and start a kettle for tea.
I had big plans, big big plans that involved fuzzy PJ’s and adventures in foreign lands pressed between the pages of a good book and nothing else so with steamy cup and slippered feet, I retrieved the mail and settled into the worn overstuffed chair…bill..junk, bill… huh..blank padded envelope?Β  Curious, I turned it over in my hands, no address, no return, no post mark. I tore the edge and tipped it, allowing the content to slip from the package and flutter to my lap. A photograph.
The 17 yr old couple smiled back at me, my smile and his. Marcus, his dark wavy hair, blue eyes, my head resting against his shoulder.
The rattling cup tumbled to the floor as I turned the picture, reading the words:
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.

The love and pain began swirling inside me, spinning like a top. My stomach lurched as I stumbled to my feet and ran for my room.
How is this possible? Who could have done This? How? I left the day he died. I left with nothing, nothing but this photograph, tucked inside his book of poetry.
On my hands and knees, I tore through my closet until I found the box, a box I hadn’t opened in 10 years….almost to the day.
There it was, the book with its love worn edges. Effortlessly my fingers turn the pages as if I’d placed it there only yesterday, to the page… the poem… the picture

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
-Mary Elizabeth frye

I want to write this story, see where it leads me. I’m debating on whether to write chapters in multiple 1st person narratives or switch to 3rd.Β  I’d welcome feedback and thoughts.

 

11 comments

  1. Wow! I love it. ❀ The way you created the whole scene, it's amazing. Would love to know what happens further and what happened in the past.
    I would love to see multiple person narrative. Maybe you could add third person narrative at places. You can give it a try and compare to decide. πŸ™‚

    Liked by 1 person

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