Viking Funeral.

We gathered around and watched as the strong hands of my father, brothers, and uncles pushed the boat from the shore. It was a viking funeral for a Christian man; his pale hands clutching a bible as we prepared the pagan ritual. It didn't make much sense, but neither did the fact he'd been taken from us so young. We dealt with what we were given. Thunder rolled in the distance, as if there were warriors in the sky rushing toward us, their horses hooves scattering the dust beneath their feet. The seas waves beat against the shore and rushed back in toward the center, carrying his body away. It was hard to look for too long. Instead I looked to the sky, and was met with stark gray, unforgiving yet even in a way that left me uncomfortable.

When the was far enough away, the bow was drawn. My oldest brother, the one he'd been closest to, steadied his hand. Before he let go, the arrow was light aflame, and the orange flicker reflected in his numb eyes which had seen their fair share of tears. It was loosed, and hit its mark head on. The boat caught, and I watched until my eyes burned just as surely as he did. The warriors in the sky has come to take him home.

- Prose inspired by "Memory of a Friend: Samuel Arthur", a piece done by Walter Collier Nicolai, located in the Thorne-Sagendorph Art Gallery in Keene, NH.