I don't think Charlie's version would have gone anything like this one, but none the less...I thought I'd share.
I'd like to encourage you guys to share your stories too. Please please don't be shy about posting in this community. Post your ideas so other people can respond. Post your writing, give and get feedback. Even if you've written a particularly profound journal entry that's artistic simply because of it's content feel free to post. And commission some stories! Let's do this thing!
Ian MacArthur is a wonderful sweet fellow who wears glasses and peers out of them with delight. He sits at his kitchen window, watching the rain run down the glass in jagged streams.
Ian MacArthur is a wonderful sweet fellow who wears glasses and peers out of them with delight. He sits on a park bench in the sun and watches the joggers and the dog walkers and the street musicians and the patterns of their movements.
Ian MacArthur is a wonderful sweet fellow who wears glasses and peers out of them with delight. He sits on a rock by the ocean and watches the seagulls swooping and soaring and the lovers holding hands as they stand in the surf, refusing to be cold.
Ian MacArthur is a wonderful sweet fellow who wears glasses and peers out of them with delight. He sits in the top-most car of the ferris wheel with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes directed at the cotton candy shanty and the throng of people waiting for their snacks.
Ian MacArthur is a wonderful sweet fellow who wears glasses and peers out of them with delight. He sits in a dark movie theatre, alone...not watching the film. He just stares at the beam of light from the projector reflecting off the dust in the air. Then something happens. It's something in the light....some quality that was there only a moment before and is no longer present. The light seems empty and dead and Ian MacArthur knows he will never be happy again.
Ian MacArthur is a fellow who wears glasses. He sits in the aisle seat of an airplane, breathing recycled air and trying to keep his legs from cramping. He sits in a hotel lobby with a fake plant on his left and a man in a suit reading a newspaper on his right. He sits in the back of a taxi cab with his eyes closed, counting to 49 in his head over and over again.
He sits in the dying grass, staring at a name on a fresh tomb stone. It is a name he does not recognize, but somehow with the death of this person something in him died as well. Things should have gone differently. Differently for him...differently for that name. Things should have gone better. He stays until nightfall.
Ian MacArthur is a cranky old man who doesn't wear glasses anymore because he's blind. He sits at the counter of a diner on a street corner in a city he doesn't care enough about to bother remembering the name of. He is bitter and he is weary and he is tired of hating everyone.
He pays his bill without leaving a tip. He walks to his apartment and sits at the foot of his bed with the TV turned up all the way. He lays back and counts to 49 in his head over and over again until he falls asleep.
When the neighbors finally notice the stench of decay a week later, he is collected in a van and entombed irreverently in the plot he had reserved for himself years before.
The funeral is held and it doesn't matter that no one attends, because no one would have recognized the name on the grave next to him and that's the only reason he would have wanted them there anyway.