A Penny Down the Well: A Short Story Collection of Horrifying Events by J. A. Crook Page A

flag which hung over the casket. Again, not wanting to near it,
he asked, “What is that?” And his voice broke through a thick wall
of silence, almost frightening himself with speaking. With Clint
mildly disoriented, Marie replied.
    “ It’s a medal.” Marie said
with a smile, less concerned about respectful zoning, and much more
objective to the tasks required of the funeral home. This was
expressed clearly when she retrieved the medal from the top of the
casket. This action, to Clint, seemed almost absolutely
inappropriate. To him, if the medal was placed there by someone
caring enough to offer it, that’s where it should have stayed.
However, he also understood the impracticality of that idea. At
some point, this casket would have to be moved, then put into the
ground, and covered with dirt, likely by two men that throw dirt on
graves for a living. With less grandeur than he expected the event
of a loved one placing the medal on the casket was during the
viewing, Marie extended the medal toward Clint, where it dangled
and glimmered like some sort of holy relic capable of repelling the
charge of those hungry wall-devils. With a bit of insight, Marie
explained it.
    “ It’s a medal from the
second World War.” And she smiled again, continuing to display it
for Clint as she realized he had no will to handle it
himself.
    Clint looked over the
medal with fascination. The ribbon of the medal was a bold, regal
red color, framed between two strips of white, then outside of them
multi-colored vertical lines. The medal itself was dull when it
didn’t catch the light, but bore the image of a woman (seemingly of
the times of the Roman Empire) holding the hilt of a broken sword,
with the blade broken from the hilt in her other hand. She also
seemed to prop her foot atop a large helmet and was entirely
accentuated by a burst of sharp rays at her flank. It was a
profound image and it seemed important. Clint began to relate the
incredible importance of this medal to the task at hand, and asked,
though it seemed quite obvious at this point.
    “ So, this person is a
military veteran from World War II?” With a hint of concern in his
voice.
    “ Yes!” Marie replied,
excitedly. “There are some differences in a military procession,
but don’t worry. Everything will be just fine, alright? All you
have to do is move with the motorcade and everything else will be
taken care of for you, alright?” Marie did her best to make the
task seem less daunting with the reassurance of guidance, but Clint
was still very concerned and so much so that he began to question
having accepted the contracted position at all.
    Marie returned the medal
to the casket as a few larger men, both wearing Velcro back braces,
stepped into the room. One of them was talking loudly to the other,
with what at first appeared to be a half-eaten sandwich in hand,
and was a moment later identified as being tuna by the scent of it
and the talking man’s permeating breath.
    “ I know, right? I told
her, ‘Listen, I’m not interested in a woman that’s pregnant with
someone else’s baby. Ain’t my problem.’ and I left. Women these
days, huh?” All with a mouth full of the formerly canned fish. He
looked between Marie and Clint, bald head unable to distract from
his bright blue, almost white, eyes. “Hey Marie.” One of the two
men said as he took another bite, all the while watching Clint like
he was some sort of unique, otherwise unobserved scientific
specimen. “Who’s this?” To Marie, not Clint still.
    Marie answered a bit
awkwardly, which was the first sign of anything of that mannerism
in her. Clint thought it funny: she was fine with the dead and
awkward with straight-talk people. “This...” And she paused,
gesturing with both hands to Clint, as though he were a “new car”
on the Price is Right. “...is Clint! He’s our new hearse driver. A
fine gentleman whom I’m excited to work with.” And she winked to
Clint, trying to diffuse her