Larkin pulled up his collar against the driving rain and pressed closer to the wall.
On the far side of the cemetery, a small group of mourners huddled under umbrellas.
There were seventeen. Eleven of them were family.
Even with the dirty weather, he’d hoped for more.
Where were friends? Work colleagues?
Fifty years and this was what a life was worth. Seventeen sodden souls in a soulless graveyard.
Four workers lowered the coffin.
That was it. His old life gone.
Larkin headed for the gate, aware that the next time he perished the funeral would be a solitary affair.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.
1 comment:
I really like the mental imagery here, Rob. And it makes me wonder why Larkin did this 'Tom Sawyer' trick, anyway. Interesting snippet, and I'd like to know more about the character.
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