Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-24608253-20140410010736

Okay, I know I should have posted my story here before posting it to the actual site, but I'm still a newbie, so please bear with me. Any criticisms will be gladly accepted!

I think this is what is called a "micropasta," but I'm not too sure. Take it away, piranhas!

I am a mortician. I dress your dearly beloved, and make so that they look beautiful for rotting. You believe that there is no soul left in a dead body (as death is the opposite of life; I don’t blame you for the misconception, see, I only wish to inform you otherwise), but, ah! what energy there is! what power over me do they entail. I put the missus in her white dress and the mister in his black suit- oh, how lovely- and in my mind’s eye I can see them dancing in the graveyard. They waltz with vitality, skipping over gravestones, their blood the same temperature as the dew silencing the grass. I, in my suit to hide these atrocities, am no match for her. The missus’ gown sweeps the clean, tiled basement floor, but I know our dance will never be as enchanting as the graveyard dance. Sometimes, when there is a single lady, I can imagine that we skip through that place of love, loving each other because true death will never come. Those times, when I retire to my dark and hollow home, I wrap my hands around my throat and pretend that I will have a missus to dance with when I’m gone. Day after day, year after year, I kiss your dearly beloved, dearly departed, dearly, dearly, and dance the mortician’s dance instead. 