Thirteen spells Disaster

Death, grand as it may be, is sometimes the cumulation of many unimpressive incidents – in Donnie’s case, what started as a simple coughing earned him a coffin.

The funeral was solemn, not the type good old Donnie would’ve wanted, but with the mandatory social distancing restrictions, three was definitely a crowd. With an exemption-note from the town council, the approved number came to thirteen, counting the priest and pallbearers.

The ceremony looked like something from a cultist conclave – all the attendees clad in black, donning face masks, pairs of gloves, maintaining a calculated distance from one another; and as if their spirits couldn’t be dampened enough, a light shower of rain serenaded them as the priest gave a brief sermon about time and seasons.

The melancholic ambience of the setting lulled the attendees into a soothing state of retrospect, the priest’s voice echoing dully around the sparsely seated hall.

A sudden poorly stifled cough; then a subsequent string of coughs. Heads turned sharply at the source of the sound out of worry, largely for their own health concern than that of the perpetrator’s.

Three is a crowd, but thirteen definitely spells disaster. 



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