Cracking Up

600 words or fewer. Flash Fiction challenge:

Someone has 15 minutes to get something done.

It must include these five words: swamp, flippy-floppy, swivel, tentative, slippery.

Tick--in all its varied meanings--should be an image that appears throughout.

It should end with this phrase: the feathers of a bird.





CRACKING UP
By
Rose Morand

The last thing Garrett had wanted was to laugh at the funeral. But he was so tired, exhausted really, from all the planning that he was feeling punchy. Everything had been on his shoulders from the instant he found Peter slumped in his swivel chair by the big desk four days ago.

The funeral home had given Garrett a list of things to do, and he’d ticked each of them off as they were accomplished. Casket, check. Day and time of service, check. Death notice, check. The night before the funeral, he’d dreamed about struggling to climb out of a swamp, but kept sliding down a slippery bank back to the bottom. He’d woken at intervals, thinking it was time to get up now, to do something on his list. But instead there was an eternity between each tick of the electric clock.

In the funeral home, the scene was surreal. The lights too pink, the flowers cloying, Peter’s lips flat and gray. There were still fifteen minutes until the service was to start. Garrett made his way through the people gathered, murmuring thank you’s, and stepped out into the parking lot for a bit of cool air. He smiled when he heard Peter’s sandals making their familiar flippy-floppy way toward him. Peter had always insisted on wearing that same kind of sandal, in sand or snow. It used to tick their dad off good when the boys were teenagers and became yet another reason Dad and Peter fought. Tonight the sound was a welcome relief. Garrett would have someone who was really there for only him. Peter wore a smirk that said he had a really good joke to share. “I know you’re kinda piled under all this shit, but could you use a really sick one right about now?” Being inappropriate and funny as hell has sort of been what made Peter tick. This one was about a man on a camping trip who had a tick on his balls that swelled so big his wife thought he had three testicles. Garrett was chuckling and shaking his head when the guy in charge of keeping the funeral on time came out and nodded. Show time.

As the minister spoke, Garrett fingered the eulogy folded in his pocket. When the minister gestured to him, he stood and walked to the podium next to the casket. Opening the paper, he looked up. Peter was in the back row of folding chairs, peeking between the heads of mourners, a tentative twitch playing at the corners of his mouth. Don’t do it, Peter, Garrett thought. Don’t you dare. Peter’s eyes rolled toward a large man in front of him, and he puffed his cheeks out like a swollen tick. Garrett wheeled around to compose himself. He looked at Peter’s frozen, ash-colored face in the casket, willing himself to feel sad, or at least somber. His knees were weak and his breath was shallow with the effort to suppress his laughter. He turned to face the chairs again. Peter cupped his hands over his crotch and crossed his eyes.

Well, that was it. Garrett burst out laughing. But within seconds the gust of energy turned into a burning cry as if someone had turned off the cold tap while blasting the hot. He clutched his stomach as the sobs poured out. Someone guided him to a chair as the minister stepped up and began to talk about Peter. Finally, Garrett quieted, letting out a choppy sigh. He was sleepy. Something brushed his cheek. It felt like the feathers of a bird.