#;; She will embalm the hell out of you (ANTIGONE FUNN)

[theholisticdetective]

“ How dare you! How dare you! How dare you call me inhumane!” - antigone

NO ONE REMEMBERS THE SIXTIES || Accepting

@radiowaaves  

“I thought you’d take it as a compliment …….”

“…… Are you sure you know what inhumane means?”

[minaharkeronline]

thanks for the conversation

eric and antigone, alone again.

(chaptigone with metions of chaplar. rated t i guess)

“It was horrible. I wanted to sink into the ground and… rot”

This isn’t the first time he’s seen her at a low. The chocolates. The play. That funeral a few weeks ago where she had stumbled out of a coffin, frazzled and frenzied. It seemed as though her entire life were beads of abasement, strung together on a necklace that seemed to weigh her down. Yet she had seen him at his worst too. After that counseling incident, when he was confused, and sad, and mad as hell, he had turned to Rudyard. Yet it was Antigone who had sternly explained to him that he couldn’t make everyone happy. She had shown him, Mr. Sunshine Man, the light. He grits his teeth at the irony.

“I should have known it was a bad idea as soon as Rudyard got involved”

He had known her shadows as long as he had known her-that fateful September morning. But sometimes, it seemed that Piffling Vale saw her as if she was standing in Rudyard's shadow. Rudyard’s weird sister. Rudyard’s weird sister who everyone thought was dead. Rudyard’s weird sister who everyone thought was dead but, in many ways, was even more alive then the rest of the village. Her vivid vision for Memento Mori. Her embalming fluids. Her flare for the arts. Maybe, if the rest of the village could see the name Funn beyond Rudyard’s bombastic failures, they would see more than a Victorian ghost.

“But… oh, I thought you and Henry deserved to make a proper go of it”

That’s what friends want, right? But, he mentally kicks himself, they’re not friends. That wry smile she had given him at Nigel and Desmond’s wedding flits back into his mind. Competitors. But do you take competitors yachting? Do you get stranded with competitors on desert islands? Do you turn to competitors when your penpal stops writing? Do you let your competitors try out and then depress your smart-coffin to death? Do competitors exhume bodies with you, in the dead of night? He knew that the only reason Rudyard had taken part in this little scheme was to get Antigone out of a slump and back to embalming, so him doing rounds at the Hospital was, essentially, self-sabotage. For a competitor.

“Turns out he and I have nothing to say to each other”

Suddenly, he’s back at the Theatre. And he’s Charlie. And she’s Clarissa. Not Eric. Not Antigone. Yet, the image of her pale, pained face, enunciated in the spotlight, is still so real to him. She has nothing to say to him. Or, at least, Clarissa had nothing to say to Charlie. Clarissa, who moped away for all those years in her greenhouse and is beautifully bashful, as portrayed by Antigone, who wasted away for all those years in her mortuary and is sinisterly sheepish. She has nothing to say to him. On this subject. Sometimes, late at night, he debates with himself if the minutes before that abrupt ending was purely Antigone, so vulnerable in front of the rest of the villagers, or just her leading up to that abrupt ending. Sometimes, he wonders what she thought she had to say to him.

“Ah. Maybe he’s not right for you”

He could understand how Henry and Antigone had thought they were compatible. They were both biting. They were both witty. They both seemed exhausted, in so many ways. Yet, somehow, there was something about them that didn’t click when he pictured them as a couple. Antigone was, despite the scowling and scheming, passionate. Henry was so….frigid. He didn’t think that Henry would have appreciated the message behind Memento Mori, just that they could knock him out for a bit. Antigone was an auteur. Henry was, well, he was Dr. Edgware.

“...Who is?”

Not Henry, that was evident. Not Marlene, apparently. Not Thomas from STIFT, who had sleazily tried to pick her up. Not even the late Seymour Prophitte. He remembers that night at the Yacht Club. Tiggy, Mr. Prophitte had called her. She hadn’t really gone for that saccharine morsel. He remembers her, before she stormed off, shouting at Seymoure that Mexico, in fact, had 68 indigenous languages. And that guacamole was made of avocados. She was so passionate and excited. About death. And art. And Funn Funerals. And, even if she didn’t always show it, her family. But also about the smaller details. Like that Mexico had 68 indigenous languages. (Did Vivienne know that? Did Vivienne care?). Someone who was right for her, he decided, cared that she cared that Mexico had 68 indigenous languages. Which were all in use alongside the most popular language, which is not Mexican, but Spanish.

“Well. Er… Only you can answer that”

He wasn’t blind to those books she read. Those films she watched. She was such a mystery to him, he couldn’t exactly step into her mind, but he figured that she probably had a vision for an ideal partner. Probably French. Mysterious. But mysterious in the way that those Nouvelle Vague men were. In a sexy, dark, seductive way. Not elusive and evasive like he was, with all those skeletons in his closet. But he could speak French! Why did he care if he lined up with Antigone’s dream man? She probably wasn’t searching for a yang to her yin. Just for a Serge to her Claudette.

“Someone who appreciates me and my work, and who I can talk to about corpses whenever I like”

If he closes his eyes, it’s like they’re stuck in the mineshaft again. The February night time chill reminds him of the cold, dark underground. Her work. Her scented embalming fluids. Her theatrics in the seance. Her funeral for Roger Noggins. Her chocolates. The funeral for Jerry. The tender eulogy and delicate care they had given. That was when he had known. Sure, Funn Funerals had had a monopoly on Funerals for generations, but that wasn’t the only reason they had succeeded. Antigone’s artsmanship. He envied it. He envied her. He had hated her for rejecting his offer. She was so invested in her work. To appreciate Antigone’s work was to appreciate her. To appreciate Antigone was to appreciate her work. Her work had the same tenderness she brought to every aspect of her life. The same passion and enthusiasm. He fought the compulsion to take her hand and grip it tight, like she had in the mineshaft, all those months ago. Sometimes, in moments like this, he’s not sure he ever even left the mineshaft.

“It’s not too much to ask”

He regrets how dry that sounds. So, maybe it’s bit to ask a member of the penny gallery. It’s probably a bit much to ask someone like Bill or Tanya or Henry. But he’s not Bill or Tanya or Henry. He hopes she doesn’t see him as part of that lot.

“No it isn’t. I’m not the problem here”

He hates her for even questioning that she could be the problem. He remembers, before that murder mystery fiasco, how she had announced that she was leaving the island. Running away from unhappiness. The past. Herself. Was unhappiness stemmed from her lack of appreciation? She barely ever talked about the past. But he had the impression that her parents hadn’t really appreciated her. Her brilliance. Her genius. Herself. He wondered what would’ve happened if she had left Piffling Vale. She wasn’t the problem. Piffling Vale was the problem.

“It’s everything else”

For once, he was saying what he thought. Everything else was the problem for Antigone. But it was for him, too.

“Exactly! The world is the problem”

And she was such a huge part of his world. She was his problem. She was more of a problem than Rudyard. She was more of a problem than Vivienne. Vivienne was so…simple. So shallow. She was an easy puzzle to crack. But Antigone. She was a work herself. More complex than any tranquilizing chocolate. Harder to decipher than any French New Wave Film.

“The world is the problem”

And here they are again. In sync. It’s as if they’re in the mineshaft again. It’s moments like this, these moments of commiseration, where he feels that they are so clear to the other. They’re on the same page of the same novel. But what genre?

“I should change”

His stomach twists at this confession. He hates her. He hates her, he hates her, he hates her. He hates her for thinking this. He hates that he has to be a mirror for her. He hates that he has to show her how brilliant she is. He hates Piffling Vale for suffocating her like this. He hates the whole world. The world, as she has said, is the problem.

“No. Antigone, you don’t need to do that. You stay exactly the way you are. The world can do the changing for you”

This is what friends say to each other. This is what friends admit to each other. This is what friends confess to each other. Alone, in the village square. The middle ground between their two worlds. If the world has to do the changing, does that mean he has to change? Maybe he should slip into the shadows for a change. Maybe he should tell her everything that he wants to. Maybe he should he figure out what he wants to tell her.

“… I meant out of this dress”

He blushes at his faux pas. He blushes at where his mind goes, picturing her out of that dress. Well, if anything, maybe she’ll mind some semblance of reassurance in his words. He can still be all things to all people.

“… Yes! Well, yes, that’s what I was saying – so long as it’s on your own terms, you know. Yeah”

As if she does things on anyone else’s terms anymore. The Antigone sitting next to him, the Antigone who had blackmailed him out of business for a month, is not the same Antigone that donned an outdoor survival suit. She didn’t need to change. But he can’t help but feel like she had. But it wasn’t as though she had gone through a total transformation. More like a butterfly coming out of a chrysalis. A chrysalis of a mortuary of a village of an island of a world. He wonders if he played a small role, if he was a catalyst, getting her out of her helmet.

“Thank you”

He’s certain that that is a friend’s response to a gesture of friendship from another friend. He can’t even remember if the same vulnerability has ever been sparked between him and Vivienne. Between him and anyone. He would throw it all away. Being Mr. Popular and Mr. Perfect and Mr. Sunshine Man. He would throw it all away if it meant he could just be something like this to Antigone. Someone who shows her that she doesn’t need to change.

“Yep, no worries”

Now that’s a lie. He’s full of worries. Maybe he’s not an obvious neurotic like she, but he has questions. About who he is. About what’s next. About when “a long time ago” will catch up to him. He wishes he could explain this to someone. He couldn’t to Vivienne. He doesn’t think she’d understand. But Antigone. He thinks she’d want to understand.

“Hey!”

Georgie. Such a steadfast presence in Antigone’s life. Does Antigone still think about his attempts to woo Georgie? Did that color her ideas of who he is? If he and Antigone ever became proper, true friends, would Georgie still be there? Georgie hates him. Does Antigone hate him? Does Antigone think about him?

“Here they come. Time to get it over with…”

He’s thankful that the mood has shifted. He couldn’t take much more of this.

“What do you mean?”

Even the way she talks is like a poem he’s trying to decipher. Does she write poetry?

“The rest of our lives”

The rest of their lives. What would that entail? Surely, something will change, somewhere in this world. Would he and Vivienne be like this forever? He has a sinking feeling at that notion. Meaningless, empty sex. Wonderful. He can look back on a life well spent with a woman who was someone else’s wife who he shared cocktails and coitus with. Would he and Antigone be like this forever? Niceties at the surface of something that was so much more than competition. Would he ever get to Clarissa thought she had to say to Charlie? Would he ever get to call her Tiggy and wake her up with a breakfast in bed of buttered toast (the way she likes it) and experience domestic bliss and hold her hands like he did in the mineshaft but kiss her too and wrap her in his arms and finally tell her how brilliant he thinks she is and how dedicated she is and how appreciated she is and how she is unlike anyone he has ever met before and how she is more alluring than any New Wave actress and how he doesn’t care if the whole village thinks she’s weird and walks like a spider and that every thought in her mind is a stroke of genius and how she is the one chink in his armor, his Achilles Heel, his downfall. He so badly wants to be something to her.

—

“And… thanks. For the conversation”

He feels so sick and dizzy and confused.

“No problem, Antigone…….

no problem at all”

Other people may be all there is, but sometimes, it feels as if they are the only two people in this world.

[theholisticdetective]

@ontheradios

Antigonick (Sophokles) trans. Anne Carson

[inthegroundontime]

Title: So, You Married a Selkie Rating: PG Ships: Rudyard/Liesel ( @ncvaflows ), mentions of Chapman/Masha ( @enjcyourselves & @caughtintherevolution ) Characters: Rudyard Funn, Georgie Crusoe, Liesel Ivanov Summary: Rudyard may not have noticed that he’s been married for the last four months, but it hasn’t escaped notice altogether.

It’s unorthodox, but Rudyard supposes he quite likes having the shifter woman around. She’s kind to him in ways no one, not even Georgie or Antigone has ever been. She listens to his stories and shares some of her own. At dawn, when she returns from her swim, he makes her a cup of tea and she sits with him, reading her book while he does the Piffling Matters crossword. Together, they delight in typos and the simple pleasure of a sunrise in Piffling Vale before the rain rolls in. It always does – especially when she leaves to swim again and Rudyard departs for work. As he worries about her safety, the storms sometimes abate, but every now and then, the lightning becomes fierce and he thinks hers will be the next body Antigone embalms. Liesel. She’s an unusual woman, with sad, dark eyes. Sometimes she seems quite happy in his company, but when he can’t stay with her or when they part for the evening – him for his bed and her for the sofa (Rudyard really ought to charge her rent but he can’t bear to) -she looks at him with such profound despair, it breaks his heart a little. Nothing has broken Rudyard’s heart in a good, long time.

He no longer sleeps well in the bed. It isn’t particularly comfortable – it never has been – but it never seemed so large before, so empty. It’s cold under the blankets and Rudyard eagerly springs from bed in the morning to make tea and toast to go with the kippers Liesel has hunted off the coastline. Once, she brought him back a pearl the size of his thumbnail. He keeps it in his other top pocket – the one above his heart, where Madeline does not sit. He used to keep nothing but lint and a pen there. He doesn’t know why he does this foolish thing, but he does it anyway. It gives him comfort, allowing him to pretend Liesel is nearby when he knows she is swimming and he is trying to keep the funeral home afloat in a much less friendly tide. Across the square, Chapman has only grown more cheerful. No one wonders how he enticed the island’s newest resident – a pretty blonde whose presence dripped magic in a way Rudyard thought was bad form, but that everyone else seemed to take for charm – yet everyone speculates why Liesel hangs around Rudyard. Rumors circulate. He has used a love potion on her. (He hasn’t. He can’t brew a decent one to save his life and Antigone finds them unethical). He has stolen her skin and enslaved her. (He hasn’t. He returned her pelt to her the day they met. Slavery makes his skin crawl). He has hypnotized her, enchanted her, cursed her. (He has done none of these things. Since reconnecting to his witch roots, he has not ever attempted something so advanced).

No one, not even Rudyard, knows why Liesel stays.

No one, except Georgie Crusoe.

Rudyard is half-in the flue of the crematorium, scrubbing the bricks clean of soot and unnamable junk. Georgie, meanwhile, sits on the table, flicking through a manual on cremation that Rudyard shoved her way this morning. As they work, Rudyard can’t help but lament certain goings-on.

“Chapman is allowed to have a mystery woman turn up and follow him around and no one accuses him of enslaving her!” he grunts between scrubs. “Meanwhile, I open my home to a woman who prefers the sea to my company and the whole town thinks I must’ve bewitched her to sleep on my sofa when she gets tired of swimming!”

“Course no one accuses Chapman of anything,” Georgie says without looking up. “The whole ruddy island still thinks he’s human.”

“Of course, he’s human. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be much of a novelty around here, now, would he?”

“Mmm.” Georgie pauses and then asks, “Does Liesel always sleep on the sofa?”

“What, now?” Rudyard pops his head out from inside the chimney, coated in black soot. “Yes, of course, she does. What kind of impropriety-“

“ ‘S not impropriety if you’re married, sir.”

Rudyard smacks his head on the bricks as he climbs out of the chimney. Massaging his scalp, he looks at Georgie with shock and then sternness.

“Now, look here,” he says, “I think I would know if I was married to Liesel. I don’t appreciate your new brand of humor and demand you quit while you’re ahead.”

“I don’t think you would,” she continues. “Know if you’re married, I mean.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, I’d know.”

“R-i-i-i-ght,” Georgie says. “Oi, Rudyard?”

“What?”

“Are you married?”

“Good God, no! Like I said – I would know. And I am – and will always be – a bachelor.”

“I don’t know how much longer you’ll have that option.”

“It isn’t optional, Georgie. It’s a fact of life. No one would nor ever shall marry me. I’m short-tempered, bossy, and wholly unsuited to the enterprise.”

“Yeah. You’re unsuited all right.” A pause. “But how d’ya like Liesel?”

“Well, of course, I like Liesel,” Rudyard stutters. “She’s kind and smart and doesn’t ask me stupid questions and she’s been contributing to the household in her own way and-“

“But how d’you like her?”

Rudyard scrambles back into the chimney. Scrubbing the bricks furiously, he waits a long time before answering the question.

“She’s kind to me, Georgie. You have to understand, I have something of a weakness for people who are kind to me. And she listens to me – about anything, like what I have to say is important. No one does that. Not really, anyway. She makes me feel… special? Is that the word? … Valued? And I would return the favor instantly, but she looks so sad all the time and we both know I’m rubbish at cheering people up and besides, she spends so much of her time in her seal-skin, swimming and fishing and bellowing at Chapman when he goes for a dip in the ocean, so I get the feeling that maybe she’s only being nice to me so I won’t charge her rent since she prefers the ocean to me, which shouldn’t hurt, since she wouldn’t be the first, but I wish I knew how to make her stay…”

“Rudyard!”

“Yes? What?”

“Do you like Liesel? As in, do you fancy her?”

“Well, of course, I do, but that’s nobody’s business but my own, thank you very much!”

“Then why the bloody hell do you make her sleep on the couch?”

Rudyard smacks his head on the bricks again as he emerges. He grumbles for a moment.

“Now look here, Georgie-“ He sounds more tired than he does angry; resigned and almost sad. “-That’s not how things are done. When I fancy somebody, I don’t ask them to bed. I shove it down and wait for the feeling to die. It inevitably does. And then, since it’s already buried deep in my psyche, I don’t have to worry about giving it a proper send-off.”

“Oh my God.”

“It isn’t as if telling her I like her will amount to anything,” Rudyard continues. “Talking about your feelings has never gotten anyone anything.”

“Rudyard, you stupid-“ Georgie doesn’t finish that thought. “Tell me the story of how you met Liesel.”

“That’s hardly relevant,” Rudyard says. “But it was on the beach. I was trying to enjoy a cheese sandwich as far away from Antigone as I could get, so I’d gone down to the beach. It was an idyllic day – perfectly toasted sandwich, peaceful scenery, really, all except the angry wind, which I managed to stop, thank you very much! And a curious thing happened: a fur coat washed up on the beach at my feet. I picked it up – I can’t abide littering – and then this woman, lovely eyes, totally naked, begged me to give her her coat back. Well. Of course, I did, but not without lecturing her about beach rules! This isn’t the Riviera, after all! The last thing Piffling needs is a nude beach! And then, somehow, we got to talking and I offered her a place to stay until she was back on her feet – or flippers, I suppose. A little shifter humor. And the rest is history.”

“So, Liesel is a selkie.”

“Well, when you put it like that… yes. I suppose she is.”

“And you had her pelt?”

“I didn’t know it was her pelt! I thought some irresponsibly and obscenely wealthy woman had left a valuable fur coat lying about!”

“And you returned it?”

“She was naked! What else was I meant to do?”

“Rudyard. D’you know anything about selkies?”

“Sure. They’re seal-shapeshifters and they enjoy Russian literature, fresh flowers, and get weepy over televised ballets.”

“No, that’s just Liesel,” Georgie said. “Do you know what if means when a man takes a selkie’s pelt?”

“I didn’t take it on purpose!” Rudyard snaps. “It washed up on the beach, I picked it up, I handed it to her.”

“Men don’t normally do that.”

“Are you saying I should have kept it? Proved all those damned rumors true? That I can only earn someone’s affection by enslaving them?” He sits down on the hearth. Drawing his knees to his chest, he looks bleakly over at Georgie, who has abandoned her reading. “I didn’t realize then that she was a selkie, but even if I had, I still would have returned her pelt to her. She deserves to choose for herself how she wants to spend her life.”

“Have you noticed how she’s chosen to spend her life?”

“Miserable in the funeral home at night and in the morning; in the ocean the rest of the time?”

“With you.” Georgie joins him on the hearth. “When a human offers a selkie her pelt back, he’s proposing. She accepted. Congrats, sir. You’ve been married for four months.”

“I’ve been what?”

“It’s a shame we couldn’t have thrown you a real stag party.” Georgie elbows him. “I bet we coulda gotten Chapman to jump outta a cake.”

“Good heavens, why would I want that?”

“Dunno.  It would be hilarious, though.”

Rudyard chuckles weakly. Imagining Chapman looking like an idiot, covered in buttercream frosting almost distracts him. But suddenly, the color drains from Rudyard’s cheeks – not that it’s easy to see under the grime.

“Wait. I’ve been married to Liesel for four months?” he asks. “When was anyone planning to tell me?”

“She thought you knew,” Georgie says. “Still does. And you are a rubbish husband.”

“Well, we’ve established that I would be!”

“Yeah, but you’ve been ignorin’ her. Makin’ her sleep on the couch. You’ve never even tried to kiss her… I mean, have you?”

“No, of course not! I just learned that we were married thirty seconds ago! How was I supposed to know I was meant to act as a husband?”

“Dunno. A little cultural sensitivity?”

“I don’t have that,” Rudyard laments. “I don’t even have a paradigm of what a good husband does!”

“What about your mum and dad?”

“We don’t talk about them,” says Rudyard. “Their marriage wasn’t exactly ideal. I’d want to do better by Liesel. She deserves better than to only be acknowledged on birthdays and holidays.”

“Yikes.”

“Indeed.” Rudyard runs a filthy hand down his filthy face. “I need to start planning. I need to woo her. Show her I’m serious about making this marriage of inconvenience work.”

“I think the phrase is ‘marriage of convenience’.”

“Tomato, to-mah-to. The point is, I do fancy her and if I want her to spend less time at sea and more time with me, I’ll have to let her know, won’t I?”

“So you’re not gonna just push this down?”

“Things have changed, Georgie. I’m a married man now.”

“Just like that, eh?”

“What do women like from romantic partners? You’re a woman. What would you want from your ideal husband?”

“A flamethrower. A helicopter. A trip to the Maldives.”

“Now you’re just being difficult.”

“Nah. Just bein’ me. What would Liesel want?”

“I suppose I could get up earlier… Go with her to the beach. Learn to make a better breakfast.”

“And ask her to sleep in the bed instead of the sofa?”

“We walk before we run in this relationship. We’ll see.”

“Rudyard…”

“… I’ll ask, but if she leaves me over it, I’m blaming you.”

Rising to his feet, Rudyard walks towards the door. Georgie watches him curiously. He stops at the threshold and turns. For a moment, he looks as if he’s about to thank her. Instead, he nervously fidgets with the wilted collar of his shirt.

“How do I look?” he asks.

“Like hell.”

“Oh. Good. Women love a bad boy.”

As he walks out the door, Rudyard hears Georgie’s last bit of yelled advice: “Oi! Rudyard! Take a shower, you daft bastard!”

What he doesn’t hear as he veers upstairs and towards the bathroom – a shower might not be a bad idea – is Georgie’s whispered hopes.

“Good luck.”

[theholisticdetective]

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