Merv Was Always
I'm writing a daily short story this year, based on a number of self-imposed rules involving randomness and a bookshelf. More on that story later, but here's one for now:
Merv Was Always
Despite his wealth, Merv was always a regular guy. He ate crispy crunches for breakfast, same as everyone else. The fact he sprinkled them with toasted diamonds was neither here nor there. He drove a tiny, second-hand Lear jet and had a poky mansion in the middle of Beverley Hills, where the neighbours were far too noisy in the night, and the garbage collectors rough and slapdash.
He toughed it out, and kept himself going, same as everyone else, with nights out in the caviar pub and occasional walks along the sides of gated neighbourhoods. He got old, same as everyone else, and bent over slightly, and found his voice more quivery than he felt.
He got to 82 and loved it there, and then died, same as everyone else. And now he lies in the ground, same as everyone else, just with a bigger, diamond-sprinkled headstone that draws jackdaws from far across the county.
© 2007 Jules Horne
18/10/2007
David Mitchell
Black Swan Green, 2006
p 173
