This story was inspired by one of Louis L'Amour's books. (I don't remember which.) I read the first part of the story, where it give a little preview of something that is going to happen later on. It was about a man in a cabin. Two men ride up and start some trouble. You know the man can't die because, well, there are many pages left to read. But what if the main character did die? What would happen then...
The Day I Died
By Melody Beerbower, Summer 2011
I remember that day like it was yesterday. I was sittin’ in my cabin like I done the last twenty years of my life, excepting when I went to town for supplies, which was rare, or when I got visitors, which was even rarer. I was cut off from civilization by the miles of forests that surrounded my cabin. Naturally, when I saw two horsemen approaching from a little path through the woods, I was suspicious.
I asks myself, “Now what are those two fine gentlemen riding up to my cabin for?” Noticing the Winchester riffles they held across the saddles in front of them, and the pistols prominently displayed at their sides, I answered myself, “Why if they aint lookin’ for trouble call me a jackrabbit.” So, I picked up me own Winchester and headed out the door.
“Howdy,” called one of the riders; he was tall, brown haired, brown skinned, and if I could have seen his eyes looking out from his brown cowboy hat they probably-- now this is just a guess mind you-- but, they probably would have been brown. The other man was short, rather fat, and not at all pleasant to look at.
“Looks like you’re expecting trouble,” commented the man in brown, indicating my riffle with a wave of his hand.
“I saw you two ride up, didn’t I?” was my cool reply. “Besides, I was born to trouble. ’Patches killed my family when I was four years old. Would of scalped me too, only I was a blond and had no hair at the time. I managed to shoot one of those Indians that day. Been using a gun ever since.”
“Is that a fact?” sneered the fat man.
“It is,” was my cordial reply.
His less cordial reply was to send a bullet zinging into my arm. I had seen him reaching for his gun and lifted my rifle. We shot at the same time. The only problem was, his gun was loaded, mine was not. He sat there on his horse, grinning like a big buffoon. “How does it feel to have led in your arm?” he taunted, drawing his other pistol.
I asked him if he would kindly wait a moment, so I could go inside and load my riffle. He seemed puzzled by my reasonable request, but assented. Well…that is he did not shoot me in the back as I turned and stepped into the cabin. Returning with my riffle loaded and ready, I looked straight at the fat man, although it pained my eyes to do so.
“To answer your question; It is very uncomfortable to have lead in your arm. But as experience is the best teacher, you can see for yourself.”
Once more our guns fired at the same moment, only this time mine was loaded. Yet this time there was a third shot. I had forgotten about the man in brown, but as his bullet slammed into my chest, knocking me to the ground and therefore sending my bullet ricocheting into the trees, I remembered him, and was not likely to forget again.
On the bright side of things the fat mans bullet missed and went sailing over me into the cabin door.
“Now what do you have to say for yourself?” the tall, brown man asked.
“Well…” I sighed, sitting up and looking at my wound, which was bleeding profusely. “I guess…” I continued slowly, trying to collect my thoughts, “I guess my aim hasn’t improved any since I was four.” Then, exhausted, I fell over and died.
Those men were shocked. They just stared at me awhile, then walked into the cabin.
Now the nice thing about being dead is no one can hurt you any longer. You’re free from pain, and worry-- except maybe about whether or not they’ll carry out your burial wishes.
I’d planed out my burial wishes years before, seeing as how I might die at any time. I wrote ’em up in the most diplomatic way I could on a shingle-- it seemed rather fitting, besides I had no paper-- then tacked them to the wall of my cabin.
When those men walked in there they saw that shingle and started reading. My requests were simple enough:
I hereby request that whoever finds me dead, or kills me, as such may be the case, would build me a coffin in which to be buried, if I have not already done so myself. At last measurement I was five feet three and three quarters inches tall, and weighed one hundred and sixteen and three-sevenths pounds.
If so possible, I would be obliged ifin’ you buried me under the Eiffel tower. I’ve always wanted to see Paris. If this is quite impossible, just bury me facing Paris.
I have no living relatives, so all I have left goes to my horse to do with as he pleases.
Finely, I would like written on my tomb stone: HERE LIES …
That’s as far as I got before my charcoal gave out. Never did find another thing to write with.
Well, those men just stood there puzzling ’bout what to do. They walked outside and spied my horse's watering trough. Maybe when I tell you the length of it you’ll know what they did with it. It was five feet four inches. These men had no Idea what Paris was or in what direction it lay. This was cause for a long discussion, which ended by the fat man saying, “We’ll bury him, and some part ought to be pointing the right direction.”
As for the tomb stone, they wondered what name to use. They asked me what my name was, but I did not answer them, after all I was dead. When you’re alive and someone asks you a question, it’ rude not to answer. But if someone asks you a question when you’re dead, you better not answer! Most likely whoever asked you is not expecting a response, and would have a heart attack if you gave one. Then instead of one, you would have two dead people. Course, it aint polite to be askin’ dead people questions anyway.
However in this case it would have done them no good if I could answer; I had no name. My parents died when I was four; I’ve been living by myself ever since. Folks mostly just call me “Hey, you!”, or that-crazy-man-who-lives-by-himself. I’ve always called myself I, or me, and occasionally myself. If I’m in a criticizing mood, I call myself you.
Well, those men were still puzzled about what to write. Finally the tall one said, “Well, we asked him his name and he said nothing, so we’ll write ‘Here Lies Nothing.”
“What about a date?” the fat man asked.
After some thought they decided on just putting a four, the age I was when I first used a gun. Considerately, they asked my horse what he planed on doing with the house. He said nothing. They asked if he would mind if they moved in. He said neigh. So they moved in, and lived there until they too died.
Since then, People have been puzzled by my grave stone that says: Here Lies Nothing. “Why would someone bother to put such an obvious statement up?” They would wonder shaking their heads.
Then one day along came a scholarly man. He saw the stone, and exclaimed, “It’s obvious.”
Everyone else said they already had figured that much out.
“No, No!” expostulated the wise man, “I mean, it I obvious that whoever put that there did not want anyone to dig there. So the wise thing to do now is dig.”
And what do you know, not two feet under my coffin was a gold mine.
Over the years the rock eroded some. The re on the end of here is no longer visible. It now serves as the motto of the very successful mining business, for it now reads: He lied 4 nothing. (the ‘d’ being added on latter)
And that’s how it happened the day I died. I think. I’m not quite sure. I was dead, you know.
The End
Here is a attempt to replicate the sign:
Here Lied
4
Nothing
It could use some more editing, and I'm not very consistent with my 'accent', but hopefully, (if you made it to the end) you found it amusing.
I just learned in English to day that you are not supposed to use hopefully to mean "it is hoped" or "if all goes well", as I did in that last sentence. Rather, to use it correctly, you must use it to mean "in a hopeful manner", which is the actual meaning of hopefully. But grammar rules were made to be broken, so I will continue to use hopefully incorrectly, at least in informal writing, or until a acceptable replacement word is found.
For those of you who are wondering, I took these pictures last summer.
