Hey guys trying something new here, well new for me so let us know what ya think i hope to have chapter one up soon but im in work in a hour or so so its not looking likely
The Legend of Fionn McCool
The rain hits hard against his only window, descending him deeper into his melancholic disposition. He tilts his head back, relaxing in his noble black leather chair and stares at the cracked ceiling. His naked back sticks sorely to the thirsty leather, he doesn’t dare move, not yet.
He looks around his gloomy room, possibly for the last time; he sees his perfectly neat made bed and frowns. Even in what might be his final hours he still has the compulsion to make sure his bed is neat and tidy. This causes him to chuckle sourly.
He looks to his closet, utterly humble. A white door in his room which has a grand total of four outfits, his work suit, his casual suit, his sports kit and his funeral suit. Three white shirts, two blue and many plain whit T’s. That’s what his life was, predictable. He was either at work, in the gym, rarely socialising beyond the confines of his tiny one bed flat or at a funeral. He smiled, he hated funerals and the next one he would attend would be his last, his own. This comforted the man; soon he would be worm food. He would have a greater purpose; he would sustain lives instead of existing due to no other option.
He wasn’t deeply religious, he believed in a god and an afterlife, but he was also very aware that once its lights out that’s it. No grand entrance at the ball of eternal happiness, no decent into horrors. He deeply wished that there was a heaven or a hell, mainly so he could have all the time he needed to learn what ever he fancied.
This thought made him pay a quick glance to his book shelf. So many books bought with the good intention of being read, so many that got lucky enough to be skimmed through. This was going to be his deepest regret. Not reading all those magnificent volumes he had accumulated over the years.
He thought once more about the after life. If there was one he knew that regardless how well he had lived his life that he would be doomed to eternal torment in hell as a suicide. This thought made him burst out in hysterical laughter. If the lord of the underworld could torment him any further then he was already he would have to tip his hat to him.
His life was hell or Hades or what ever you believe awaits sinners after they succumb to the only guarantee that awaits us, death. Where ever he ends up, whether it be hell, heaven, by the mistake of some poor soul who has maintained the strict rules of who gets in and who doesn’t for all eternity, like a power hungry bouncer turning people away because they wore the wrong shoe, or they wore white socks. This thought also made him chuckle to himself. The idea of heaven being like the most exclusive night club in the cosmos and the likes of Ghandi being turned away because when he was four he pocketed a sweet from the sweet shop breaking a commandment and not repenting it. But a convicted rapist being allowed in because he begged forgiveness on his death chair, and the pitiful priest granting him it, thus putting his name on the guest list for the VIPs’ section.
“The system doesn’t work even in the after life” he chuckled
Or then there was non existence. He welcomed this. He would much rather not exist then live his life again.
Then a terrible thought landed home. What if suicides came back, reincarnated. Doomed to live the same life again but powerless to change it. Stuck in the back of the mind of yourself reliving all the agonies and defeats that drove you to do the most hanice of acts, commit suicide.
For the first time he was scared about what was about to meet him. He emptied his mind and focused on his end table.
Two things were set there. His last will and testament and the grim spectre of death. It wasn’t the classic image of a skeleton in a black robe carrying a scythe that appeared to him as death. But a simple device, a shot gun loaded and waiting, waiting on his table. Although this was inanimate it was still death, it was still the grim reaper ready to bring him to what ever sentence awaited him.
He steadied his shaky hand and lit his last cigarette. He smirked at how good it tasted. It was right the last of anything was always the best. This made him look down at his waist. To the evil that caused his whole predicament. The bulky white nappy taped to his anatomy. He laughed, his last nappy and it’s the snuggest fit he has ever managed. The irony was not lost to him. With one last drag on his cigarette he picked up the cumbersome shotgun and put his mouth over the barrel. He was strong in his final moments, he did not cry or regret. Death’s chilli hand took his and with the loudest sounds possible for the human brain to withstand, which lasted all of a millisecond it was over.
Three people attended his funeral, and as the pipes played the fields of Athenry he was lowered into his eternal resting place. Not one person shed a tear. Thus ends the life and times of Fionn