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I. —---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At the exact moment Grandpa turned into an object, you could tell because the cursor ceased to hover above his head. For the first time in twenty two years, you were attempting to interact with something that was no longer interactive. Unselectable. As a baby you’d pinch his cheeks with chubby fingers and he’d wince, grinning, feigning injury. You could do that as many times as you wanted right now, and this time, it wouldn’t make a difference.

        Under what conditions does a portrait become a still life?

II. —--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Put a coin in the viewfinder.

*click!*

Pan eyes along a swivel track, left to right, along the y-axis of the room. Observe the following:

*click!*

        [INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE]

III.—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

        Observing the rule of thirds:

Top third: blue

Bottom two thirds: green, flecked with bits of white- not snow. It’s summertime; these are dandelions;

        May is occasionally cooperative, and luckily, today was one of those days. Grandpa always said he wanted to be buried under that live oak near the creek behind the old house in Tellico Plains. The current landowner was willing to oblige this request.

        “And that was real sweet of him to do that,” said Grammaw. Everyone agreed, nodding and murmuring. We are all standing in the tall grass next to the tree in our funeral clothes- cookies-and-cream dippin’ dots around a dead body. It’s a strange thing, this whole arrangement. viewing it from the cockpit of a helicopter in my mind’s eye, I have to suppress an urge to laugh.

        I look from side to side at my brothers. They squirm in their itchy cotton suits, now covered in a fine dusting of pollen and dandruff. There are sweat bees hovering at our ankles. Matthew tugs at his collar as it chafes against his skin in the rising noonday heat. I glance across the circle at my mother and aunt standing reverently still like lawn ornaments, listening to the drawl of the pastor as he reads from Ephesians 4:

- “There is one body, and one spirit, even as ye are called in one hope of your calling: one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and father of all, who is above all and through all and in you all.”

        I wish I could be a lawn ornament. I figure it would be calming in a certain way. I shove my restless hands in my pockets. My knuckles graze something…

Oh cool- a coin. I needed that.

*click!*

IV.—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pan eyes along a swivel track, right to left, along the y-axis of the room:

*click!*

V.—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

People go on and on about the Soul- if it’s real, what it is, where in the body it’s stored, etc. But the truth is pretty straightforward- the human Soul is visible with infrared goggles. If you can’t see it with the goggles, it’s not there anymore. That’s how they knew Grandpa was ready to be put in the box. The coroner flips down his infrared visor- he’s looking for blues and greens from head to toe. Large patches of red or orange mean “Hold the fort! Take the toe tag off! Wheel him out of here! He’s still kicking!” On the other hand, yellow indicates that the Soul is currently being judged. It’s not likely to be sent back into the body at this point, but there have been a few known cases, so it’s best to leave the subject on the table and come back to it after lunch.

        Most cases of live burial are the result of Soul-exams conducted with faulty technology. It’s best to get your infrared kit serviced every 24-30 months. As a mortician, there’s nothing worse for your business than claw marks on the inside of a box- though in fairness, these incidents almost always go unnoticed.

VI.—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“one body,

 one spirit, 

even as ye are called in one hope of your calling:

one Lord, 

one faith,

one baptism,

one God and father of all, who is above all and through all and in you all.”

                                        

                A horsefly lands on my nose. I swat it away and snap back to reality.

        “...but unto every one of us is given grace according to the measure of the gift of Christ. Wherefore he saith, when he ascended up on high, he led captivity captive, and gave gifts unto men. Now that he ascended, what is it but that he also descended first into the lower parts of the earth? He that descended is the same also that ascended up far above all heavens, that he might fill all things.”

        The sun filters through the moss of the live oak tree, illuminating the pastor’s face with a sheer, form-fitting mask of honeycombed light. He raised his lazy eyes to meet ours.

“Bow your heads with me. Let’s pray.”

“Dear Lord, we come to you today to rejoice in the work you’ve done in the life of William-”

        Something rustles in the grass. I open my left eyeball to peek.

“...In grief, but also in celebration, knowing that he has gone to calvary. You have received him with arms wide, exclaiming, “Well done, good and faithful servant!”

        Another rustle in the grass. Approximately two lawn ornaments away, a skink crawls onto my sister’s shoe. Red, black, yellow, blue, violet on black on white. Two paperbacks on the dash of my car. Suttree and As I Lay Dying. Did I remember to lock the car? Yes. Focus.

“And Father, we pray over the Martinson family. As they walk through this time, we lay hands on them in the name of the Lord Jesus, as you have taught us to do, and we ask you to place these words on their hearts, the words ‘and the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guide your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.’ In your name, I Am, we pray peace. Peace on their home, peace on their hearts, peace knowing that-”

*BEEP*  *BEEP*

        

Everyone opens their eyes and looks up. A tiny red light is blinking in a shadowy spot down by the creek.

*BEEP*  *BEEP*

A weighted blanket of uneasy silence falls over the funerary circle.

*BEEP*  *BEEP*

Matthew glances at me, then slips out of his suit jacket and jogs down to the creek to take a closer look. He gets down on his stomach in the grass, brushing away dead leaves.

*BEEP*  *BEEP*

        It’s a trailcam. “Must be low on batteries,” he muses. There’s a pinprick of light coming from inside the device. He peers deep into the fisheyed lens. tiny white letters read:

“[INSERT COIN TO CONTINUE]”

*BEEP*  *BEEP*

He notices a glint in the grass by his knee. He brushes the dirt away… a buffalo nickel and an indian head penny. How did those get there?

*click!*

VII.—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

        glowering, red, bipedal blue green flecked with bits of white polka dotted ring of black and white red black yellow blue violet on black on white

 Κύριος     ==        יהוה‎                                                        

        

_-_-_→Infrared vision, on a swivel track along the y-axis of the room… all shades of green and blue.

*click!*

VIII.—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

…

A bright room, whitewashed floor to ceiling. Sunlight is streaming in from a skylight. In the center of the wall, a framed photo of a hoarder sitting in his living room. Beneath it, inscribed on a small, bronze plaque:

“Still Life”

and in smaller lettering, below this:

“In loving memory of my grandfather, Bill Martinson. A man with only one boss. He spent too much time in the scriptures to ever truly forgive his daughter, but enough time in the scriptures to know better than to renew his NEWSMAX subscription.”

and in even smaller lettering, below that:

“1939-2022”

and in even smaller lettering, below that:

“The End.”