Stronger than love, stronger than hate, stronger than self-perservation, is the desire to mess with someone else's prose.
The white and yellow flowers smelled sweet. A quiet psalm sounded among the whispering trees. The boy looked on with curiosity as large men lowered a coffin into the ground. The headstone stood nearby, a name on its face, every line carved hard and deep and cold. His brother's.
The boy tossed a white rose into the grave. Rain fell and chilled his hands.
His mother’s gentle palm brushed across his eyebrows, then his eyes, his nose, and his chin. Her lips were softer than her touch: She kissed him on one cheek, then the other, then on the forehead. Her eyes were red; tears mixed with the rain.
He shivered. She clasped his hands, giving them a warm squeeze.
He looked up and saw his father--so still, so grand, like the statue of a king. Rain fell, but his father never moved.