An Unfortunate Incident

It was a bleak December day, with a dark rain drizzling softly on the freshly turned dirt, and quietly soaking into the dying grass below. The sky overhead was filled with a sea of dark and foreboding clouds, and in the distance, the faint sound of approaching thunder could be heard as it crackled weakly against the empty sky. Even the flowers that lie atop the headstones were of a saddened hue, as if to accommodate the darkened and monochromatic dimness of the day. It was one of those long, dreary days that most are prone to forgetting, and which seem to exist only to provide contrast to the days immediately following. In short, there was nothing to distinguish this day from any other, and it was all too easy to overlook the unfilled grave of Arthur Blackwell.

Blackwell himself had lived a recluse for much of his life, and it was very seldom that he ever ventured out of his one room apartment, on any given occasion. Blackwell was not very well known by any of the residents of his apartment building, this including the landlady. He spent very little time with anyone aside from himself, instead preferring to stay within his room, though, truth be told, no one really knew if he truly preferred living in such a manner at all. He was not a dislikable man by any means, but not overly charismatic either. He lived very poorly, but always managed to pay his rent on time, and without complaint. When residents passed him in the hallway, he always made an effort to be friendly and hospitable, even though he often found these efforts difficult. He was a sickly man, and presumably had been all of his life. Perhaps it was this sickness, or maybe even his isolation that had began his lifelong trend of writing. Arthur, though none knew it at the time, was a poet.

Blackwell represented one of the more grim sides of authorship, that few outside the profession are apt to consider. He was, undeniably, very good. In fact, he may have been among the best, as far as his writing was concerned. He primarily crafted darker works, containing moving depictions of hidden emotion and unseen worlds, and had he not been born at such a late period of time, his works might have rivaled even the coveted Poe. Despite this, however, he was very little known, with only a meager amount of works in circulation. He had attempted to publish some of his works, but, unfortunately, few saw the merits of such an art among the developing world, and employment was scarce. Even when he did publish any type of writing, it was often a work that he deemed lesser than his full capacity, as he was extremely sensitive, and lived in fear of having one of his masterworks rebuked. So, with the stagnant market for fine word craft, and his painfully demure personality, he was only able to find employment as a storekeeper's assistant, and even this was only for so long as he was able keep up the facade of good health, and he knew it to be only a matter of time before this too would be lost.

And so it was, with rapidly deteriorating health, poor living conditions, and a tragically suppressed soul, Blackwell passed away in his room one late evening. He was found a few days later, wrapped in a frayed blanket, in a vain attempt to keep at bay the winter cold. Whether he was in his late twenties or early thirties no one was quite sure, as none were able to locate any of his birth records. He was to be buried in a local cemetery the following day, as none saw the point of postponing it any longer, as he had no friends to speak of, and no remaining relatives. So, the following evening, under the bleak mid morning haze, two men armed with heavy raincoats and dull spades said a quick prayer for the dead poet, and dug what was to be the young author's final resting place, among the withered flowers of a pauper's graveyard.

The men worked diligently, with a somber air that matched their grim task, shovels of dirt and mud steadily being cast from the small pit. The first was an immigrant of British decent, and, like most new immigrants in the city, was too poor to mend the underarm holes on his tattered coat, which had been worn away from years of shoveling. He drove his shovel into the dirt, and took a moment to lean against it, wiping the sweat from his face. "Poor bloke, 'ate ta see 'em go 'ike 'is, no fam'ly n' all." He said solemnly, shaking his head back and forth slowly. "Ut un' ev'n get a preacher." He stood and mused for a while, before adding "All o' em' at least dese've a preacher."

At this, the man picked up his shovel, and resumed his work. The second remained silent, though he paused to consider the previous man's statement for a moment, before sinking his shovel into the hard packed earth. He was a more reserved man, with deep set eyes and a tall, thin frame. Despite being born within the city, he was scarcely better off than his counterpart, and had grown up within the impoverished Third Quarter. He had a habit of thinking over a conversation thoroughly before responding, choosing to do so with as little words as possible. This thought, however, he would never finish.

"Hear that?" The man said suddenly, laying down his spade. The Briton did not have time to respond, as the man had already begun pulling himself out of the hole. "'Ut 'cha you doin', Charles?" The Migrant asked, letting his spade drop from his hands. Charles did not answer, but stood silently before the unopened casket of the man he was to bury. He stood, rain dripping off of his wide-brimmed hat and running across his back, listing intently to some indistinguishable sound. Slowly, his head turned toward the casket, wearing an expression of rapt disbelief.

The second dug his hands into the saturated earth, and pulled himself out of the grave, standing alongside his silent companion. Once again he questioned Charles, concern rising in his voice. He tried to slow his speech, wondering if he had been misheard, pronouncing each word with added emphasis. "What is it Charlie?" Charles still did not answer, staring in disbelief at the casket, before slowly pointing a shaky finger at the rough pine box. Then, both men fell silent, and just audible over the sound of the drizzling rain, there was a faint scratching sound, as something slowly scraped away the wood within the casket.

Had the men not been so shook by this, they might have reasoned that a small animal might have managed to crawl inside the casket. They might have even pried back the lid of the casket, to see what lie within for themselves. Perhaps it had been the weather that had drove them to it. Maybe, in their occupation, it had simply been inevitable. Whatever the reason, each man left their spades where they lie, and fled the graveyard, without stopping to so much as glance behind them, even to see what had become of the other; for each man knew fully well that the casket held much more than the lifeless body of the late Arthur Blackwell, and whatever was in that casket, did not want to be buried.