life sentence

'So, what would you put on your gravestone?' said Ferzackerley, returning from the bar with a couple more IPAs.

'I'd probably run with something like Keats,' said the Author.

It was a suitably apocalyptic night to consider epitaphs: flashes of lightning were rapidly followed by deafening bangs and sudden bursts of slashing rain that sent the homeward crowds dashing past the windows of the Oscar Wilde.

It was the first time the Author had felt really stuck for a structure for his daily short story. Ferzackerley had quizzed him from time to time on progress and it had been satisfactory enough, although only a few of the stories so far had left him really satisfied.

'They're getting a bit dark aren't they?' said Ferzackerley. 'Horror stories then epitaphs. So let me get this right. Today it's got to be about something on a gravestone, or an obituary? And bonus points for a long sentence? Well, you're not going to be scouting around cemeteries on a night like this. Can't you just use a famous headstone?' He was fumbling with his phone. 'Here are a few epitaphs I like,' he said, pulling up some images.

DEAR FREND FOR IESUS SAKE FORBEARE,

TO DIGG THE DUST ENCLOASED HEERE,

BLESTE BE YE MAN TY SPARES THES STONES,

AND CURST BE HE TY MOVES MY BONES.

'That sounds a bit banal and illiterate,' said the Author. Nothing about the qualities of the deceased. Whose is it?'

'Shakespeare's.'

'Oh.'

'How about this then?'

I'M A WRITER

BUT

NOBODY'S PERFECT

'I wouldn't mind Nobody's perfect for my epitaph. I once sponsored a cinema seat and you had to give your favourite line from a movie. That was mine – the final line from Some Like It Hot.'

'So this is Billy Wilder's headstone.'

'There you go. Best movie ever made in my view. What's your best film?'

'Don't get distracted, stick to your theme.'

'I seem to remember that Jack Lemmon, perhaps not wanting to be outdone by his good friend Billy, simply had a final marquee title.'

JACK LEMMON

IN

'And of course there he was, in the grave below.'

'On the other hand there are the bitter and twisted ones. Like this.'

MAY ETERNAL DAMNATION BE UPON THOSE

IN WHALING PORT WHO, WITHOUT KNOWING ME,

HAVE MALICIOUSLY VILIFIED ME.

MAY THE CURSE OF GOD BE UPON THEM AND THEIRS.

'Nasty. Sounds a bit like what Trump would put on his.'

'This was some cat lady apparently. The good citizens of Whaling Port report that everything has been fine and dandy there ever since she died – the curse isn't working.'

The Author was starting to despair of his task. 'The interesting epitaphs seem to be either jokey or vicious.'

'Not all of them.'

'Anyway, how do you sum up a life in a sentence?'

'You don't. You make a joke, or bear a grudge, or, well – some are deliberately bathetic.'

'Like Spike Milligan's?

I TOLD YOU I WAS ILL

And that brings me back to Keats.'

'What was that again?'

The Author explained. Keats had died of consumption at the age of 25 in Rome and was buried there at the Protestant cemetery. His wish had been that his stone would bear the words

HERE LIES ONE WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN WATER

Above it was to be carved a Greek lyre with four of its eight strings broken to demonstrate how his genius was cut off by death before its maturity. However his friends added a lot of other guff.

'Somewhat pretentious.'

'But nevertheless true,' said the Author. 'I wonder what he would have achieved if he had lived. He hung out with all the famous poets of his time – Shelley, Southey, Wordsworth – and they recognised his great potential.' He took a swig of his drink. 'Actually I wouldn't have an epitaph at all, or even a memorial. Just scatter my ashes on my favourite beach when I'm gone.'

Ferzackerley was continuing to flip through his phone. 'Actually there are some that are very moving. Look at this.'

NEVER AGAIN NEVER FORGET

6 July 1943 22 June 1988

A GAY VIETNAM VETERAN.

WHEN I WAS IN THE MILITARY

THEY GAVE ME A MEDAL FOR KILLING TWO MEN

AND A DISCHARGE FOR LOVING ONE.

'That's in the Congressional cemetery in Washington. Leonard Matlovich was the first American soldier to come out publicly, and fought to keep his job in the army. A brave pioneer. It does sum up his life in a sentence, in a way, and also stands as a rebuke to the present and a challenge to the future.'

'You know, that is actually a short story right there.' The Author slumped forward over his drink. 'Very moving. I could never equal that.'

They both paused for thought for a minute.

'So what are you going to do for this challenge?'

The Author finished his beer and looked out into the darkness. The rain was diminishing and it was time to go home. 'I don't know. Maybe something about all these epitaphs we've been talking about,' he said.

'That's not really a short story though is it? It doesn't have an ending – a – what do you call it?'

'A resolution. You're probably right. Maybe I could finish with something like:

That night the Author went home and, feeling inspired, wrote a brilliant story about epitaphs and headstones and obituaries; and about his conversations with his good friend Ferzackerley, who many years later, on hearing the sad news of the death of the great man, had remembered what the now famous Author had said and, standing up to the publishers and literary executors and all the other hangers on, decided he must honour the wishes of his best mate, and so he went back through all his writings to find the story that proved the last wishes of the Author, and persuaded all his friends to fly out to his favourite tropical beach where they lit a great bonfire – like the one that the friends of Shelley had lit to immolate his corpse on a lonely Tuscan beach: not that Ferzackerley was going to do anything so dramatic, as he'd already had his corpse quietly dealt with at the crematorium in Golders Green – and they had a great time dancing around the fire; celebrating the life and achievements of the great Author; sharing the many happy memories they had of him; and scattering his ashes over the clear tropical waters of a coral sea and all the time knowing that those memories of him would stay with them as long as they lived and would be the ultimate memorial.

How would that be?' said the Author.

'Well, it's not really a resolution,' said Ferzackerley. 'But at least it's a long sentence.'

For a final instalment in the meta drama go here