Parley After Life: D.I.Y. Guide to Death and Other Taxes

FParley After Life

D.I.Y. Guide to Death and other Taxes

Warning: Contains Notes

Robby Miller

Copyright © 2013 and update © 2022 by Robert Miller

Smashwords Edition

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Dedication:

To my three remaining children: Adrian, Hannah, Tim, James, and Sam, who turned my world upside down and taught me everything else I needed to know about life, inside and out, even when they are not here.

Acknowledgements:

Many thanks to Vivien Clark-Ferraino and Gabe d’Eustachio who corrected this tome - corralling errant commas, coaxing colons into line and guiding the grammar to conform.

I acknowledge the Awabakal people - the traditional custodians of Newcastle, Australia where my ancestors first settled. As well as the Cammeraygal and Wallumattagal clans of the Dharug nation, where I’ve lived and worked most of my life. Their cultures and customs have nurtured and continue to nurture this land, since the Dreamtime. I pay my respects to the Elders past, present and future.

Foreword:

In my humble opinion, Forewords are a waste of space. However, if on reading this, you feel litigious, please read the Post-word.

Parley After Life - D.I.Y. Guide to Death and other Taxes - was written as a memorial to my two lost sons. The first died tragically as a teen, risk-taking with a train. The second, died of grief, increasingly heartbroken over 11 years at the separation from half of his identity since they were close enough in age to feel like twins. At first, I was terrified I would start to lose track of some of the defining moments in our abruptly ended relationship. Later I discovered their lives were unforgettable, constant triggers of bittersweet memories.

The book was also written to work through my grief. I sought bereavement counseling and learned that the loss of a loved one is not something we ever recover from - rather we learn to walk with it every day; we learn to survive our altered lives in a world where those around us may not feel the same depth of pain at the simplest of triggers. For me, I cannot make toast without recalling the day I held his hand around a butter knife and showed him how to spread apricot jam. I cannot eat soft cheese. There are many other thoughts, too, that come unbidden. Grieving is not stopping the memories but learning to sidestep drowning in the emotions that surround each trigger like a bog across our path. By referencing a myriad of minor events from my sons’ lives in the novel, it enabled me to sort through those memories and put them into compartments where they would be preserved even though the world around me had collapsed into an abyss. It helped me to make sense of a world that had suddenly become insane, twice, and so saved me from falling into insanity myself - even though that was appealing during the early stages when I wished and longed to somehow bring them back to me. The allegorical desire for their return underscores the journey in the story.

Memorials help us focus on what we love about a lost loved one. It helps us know that our love for them will be with us until we ourselves pass away. Encapsulating a little of their importance to us in writing reminds us that we do not need the fantasy of the afterlife to feel better about the loss - rather we are allowed to feel terrible about it while still getting on with the life we now have to lead without them.

I have tried to refer to the many different forms of death as an honour to all those who have gone through the abyss of loss. However, I apologise to anyone who feels that her or his personal tragedy has been overlooked. I know I could never fathom everyone's pain so ask that you take with you the knowledge that your ongoing bond to your lost loved one is something that only you can really fully understand.

The page, http://www.facebook.com/Parley.After.Life, is dedicated to our lost loved ones. Please add your memorial (but no names) instead writing about their life & how they touched you forever.

Section numbers correspond to the Teachers’ Version

The Teachers' Version of Parley After Life can be downloaded from Smashwords. It includes an extra 32 pages or 20,000 words of explanatory cross-referenced notes on the homonyms, idioms, double meanings and paraphrases as well as additional literary bibliographic references. Further comprehension, web search and discussion questions follow each chapter with answers and class handouts. Author's comments on the human condition that has led to widespread belief in religions and the afterlife are also expounded upon but, more importantly, there are psychological self-help insights into how best to work through the grieving process.

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Parental guidance recommended. Contains adult themes.

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Contents:

Chapter 1 ~ Death / Cellar Notes 1

Chapter 2 ~ War / Cellar Notes 2

Chapter 3 ~ Famine / Cellar Notes 3

Chapter 4 ~ Conquer / Cellar Notes 4

Mr Sock’s Recap

Chapter 5 ~ Taxes / Cellar Notes 5

Chapter 1 ~ Death

~Section 1

He looked up and saw a small white fluffy dog standing over him. That is to say she was standing beside him yet looking down on him through glistening eyes of black crystal. Oh, then I’m not dead, he thought from where he lay looking upwards.

That’s what they all say, whimpered the fluffy white dog wagging its tail as if about to be taken for a walk.

But you can talk! So, something is weird. Did I hit my head?

No, your head hit itself! wagged the doglet sarcastically. Come-on, hold my leash or you’ll start to waft.

What? said the teenager. Who are you and why should I take you for a walk? And where’s my head?! Oh my god! It’s over there!! I AM dead!! WHO are You?!

I’m Parley, wuffled the dog’s nose. Now be a good boy and hold my leash… There that’s better, isn’t it? Now let’s get you out of here before that old lady wanders down here and screams and people start running around ‘ooing’ and ‘ahhing’ and gasping little bits of you in and sighing little bits of you out all over the place. Come on, follow me, that’s right. Yes, you lot better come too," she said though to who wasn’t exactly clear.

Where are we going? Who did you say you were?

We are going to the Alyssum Files and I’m Death. Keep up will you.

Death? smiled the boy, I don’t think so. He’s that big skeleton with a scythe; black hood. And he forgot to keep walking, his heels digging into the ground that gave way before him so that he skated along being pulled by the leash. He didn’t notice the 37 trillion dead bacteria and parasites scooting along behind him.

Yes yes, I’ve read the Hogfather too, clicked the dog’s claws on the pavement.i And she gave a little wiggle, which flicked the leash around the boy’s wrist so he wouldn’t let go by accident. And you’ve no doubt read what everyone else read about what Death looks like. In fact, I wrote it myself, so I should know what they read.

Huh?! You can’t write. You’re a dog. And the boy sat down though it made no difference as he skimmed over the ground that melted before him and froze behind.

And yet here you are in the Here-after hearing me so I must be before you, talking, blinked the doglet. And who’s to say I don’t know what’s right? I told everyone Death was a skeleton so they wouldn’t notice me coming and get left behind. Generally, I find they’d rather follow me than wait for what they think is coming to get them. People waft around so much after they die. It’s not like they have a choice, but you wouldn’t guess how many times I’ve been asked, Did I leave the light on? Is that the time? Nobody asks, Will you walk a little faster? There’s a purpose close behind us and it’s treading on my tail. So, it’s better to just give them the old doe eyes and get them on the leash and over here. And here we are, piddled the dog squatting beside a post box.

Here we are where? asked the boy looking around and missing the fact that the post box was changing colour into a bland creamy flat shape just like a huge manila folder that folded around sweeping them into its middle and twisting back on itself like origami into a shiny red post box with a damp patch at its base.

~Section 2

This is the bit most people think is where everything goes white but it’s more a beige really. You’re in the Alyssum Files where hopefully everything will make a lot more sense and you can spend eternity sorting it all out.

But what about my head? Won’t I need that?!

Look at your feet, said the dog without even so much as an accent.

Oh, my goodness! You just talked with your mouth! said the boy. But he looked down anyway and saw he was looking up at his head from bulging eyes that were rooted to the hand he was standing on. The other hand was on the end of a leg that had sprouted out of the head.

Of course, I can talk with my mouth, said Parley. I just don’t like to show off when old ladies are watching. Now keep your feet moving; use the left one for thinking and the right to check if it’s right. Or is it left over right? Righty-oh, make it up as you go. There’s nothing right about being left by Death.

But the boy tried to clasp his hands to his ears to block out the sound before he went barking mad though trying nearly toppled him over.

Only he didn’t feel ears on his head, he found a foot, in place of one ear. It felt him because his fingers had disappeared and only by wiggling his toes did he work out that his bottom had been planted on the end of one arm. Then, straining to focus on the unintelligible, he gasped; his nose was where his bottom should be though it still smelled the same.

Ahhhhh! squeaked his belly button from out of his knee.

Parley looked up and went, Oh dear, he wasn’t supposed to be here, was he? I hate it when they get all mixed up and then They always complain about it, too.

You mean God’s going to see me now? Like this? he squeaked.

Evon? Oh no, They are here. She’s there.

The boy raised his eyebrows in question. It tickled his chin, but he was interrupted...

PARLEY! boomed a gathering of voices from the dog’s rump. And Parley sat down with a flump and started to scratch. A flea jumped off and looked her in the eye. That is to say it jumped up and down beside her and looked down on her when it could.

You have bought another untimely death in here! This is the place of order! No wonder he’s all in a cur-fluffle. He’s not ready yet.

Help… muffled the boy’s kneecap through some bluish fluff.

Oh, come here boy, said the flea and the boy found himself shrinking rapidly to the size of a flea and being surrounded by the other fleas who had all jumped off the dog to meet him. For a moment he thought they were going to bite him, but a few were still looking up hungrily at the fluffy white dog that towered above them staring vacantly at the cream coloured walls.

Look, Parley has brought you to Alyssum too early. She’s lost her head of course though you are partly to blame for losing your own. Be that as it may, you’ll have to stay here now. You can rest in the Piece’s Fields until your time is up.

But I’m all over the place! said the boy’s pieces.

Oh yes, hold on. I’ll just suck you in and put it all right. Whatever you do, don’t scratch. And the boy found himself back to his normal though jumbled size.

Suddenly a flea bit his ankle but before he could look down the essence was sucked out of him, and the flea had swollen to the size of the boy. The boy had become wafer thin, crinkled a bit and then crumbled into a pile of flakes. The flea choked and rolled its eye and another flea jumped back onto Parley and bit her ear. The dog spun around whisking its tail through the dust of the boy scattering it to the wind. The swollen flea jumped up into the dust and from nowhere two other fleas jumped at full force from left and right, slamming into its sides so the boy’s silvery blood sprayed out all over the dust, gluing it back together into the right shape for a small boy with his head in just the right place, too.

~Section 3

Oh, thank you! gasped the boy, feeling himself all over as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Now can I go back if I’m not supposed to be here?

Um, no; sorry, said the flea. Once you’re in Alyssum there’s no sense in going back. It just makes everyone jumpy! Hahaha, did you see what I did there? But the dog just stepped on him, much to everyone’s relief. The others jumped back into the fluffy white fur.

Did They fix you up properly inside, too? No gas? Right, follow me then - all of you, said Parley including all the bacteria and parasites that had died with him. "I’ll take you over to the G-Host’s place. It always plays host to the lost boys, bats or cats that turn up before they’re ready. You don’t want to hang around here; too many ghosts. And she wagged her tail at the wall, parting it, so they could walk out into a grassy field.

Ghosts? he asked as he stepped through the beige wall, Why would there be ghosts in the afterlife?!

Oh, there are a lot of people who want to be here because their life is unbearable. But even though their heart is here already no one will let them die.

You’re kidding! gasped the boy. You wouldn’t catch me dead hanging around here! and he looked around hoping to see a way out.

Mountains skirted a vast plane dominated by a huge tree near an endless white ocean. In the distance was a rolling of unceasing thunder; just rumbling on, getting steadily louder like the hooves of enormous beasts galloping towards him. He could just see a speck of black on the horizon with a thin strip of dust blowing away from it.

Let’s sit here and wait for it, said Parley giving herself a good scratch (Oi, watch it! boomed a couple of voices) and she turned in a circle before sitting down.

What are we waiting for? asked the boy keeping his eyes towards the rumbling sound.

Well, nothing really, said the dog, it’s already here. But it likes the suspense so it will be a while pretending to get here to give us time to think about it. Of course, I’d call it ‘he’ except he lost that bit, too.

Um, can I ask you a question Mrs. Death? asked the boy sitting down, too.

Call me Parley, said Parley, As in ‘the Great Meeting place in the fluffy white clouds.’ People always look for sheep in the clouds but that’s just a smoke screen. It’s really just little old me - man’s ‘best’ friend. You can ask me a second question too if you like…

Um, said the boy, Why a skeleton? You’re much less scary to meet.

Precisely, said Parley, Death is the Great Meeting so everyone would be in a hurry to get here for an old pow-wow. I had to write something that would scare them off, so they don’t all get here before their time. Besides, the idea of bones turned me on.

Oh, um, and why did we come through a Post box?

Why else do you think they are called Post for? replied Parley. Besides, you wouldn’t believe how many pieces of paper die in them. See that huge paper tree over there? All of it is lost pieces of paper trying to stick themselves back together into a tree again. Some call it the Tree of Knowledge; either for good, all those ideas that get jotted down but never executed (if you’ll excuse the pun) or evil, bills that got torn up before they were paid. Not cheques though. People rarely lose those; they just forget to write them. Forgetting and losing are parallel universes you know.

~Section 4

The sound of galloping hooves had gotten steadily closer but as the boy was lost in thought it gave up trying to impress him and leapt out from behind the tree instead. The element of surprise was quite effective as the tree was miles away. There, panting dramatically before the boy, was a huge russet coloured gelding. Or at least it had the basic shape of a horse with the feet of a panther, the tail was a hand cut off at the wrist pointing away from its behind and the head and neck were covered in a huge sock with black button eyes. Out of it came a voice that was lost in the mists of Time and yet friendly, like a slightly squeaky breeze.

Hello. What’s your name? it asked.

I don’t know? said the boy. What’s my name, Parley? Why don’t I know my name?

I don’t know it yet, said the dog. "That was given to you by your parents and if you’re not supposed to be here then your name hasn’t died yet, so I