Tag Archives: accident

1408. The best-laid plans

Once Mandy had decided to commit suicide she began to plan things meticulously. This was to be no spontaneous act. Every detail would be thought through.

She searched the internet for methods. She downloaded dozens of coroner’s reports. Timing was all important. No need to be discovered a week after the event.

And then she planned the funeral. It was to be simple yet elegant. No bought flowers by request, but flowers cut from the garden would be most welcome. No turgid hymns but lively renditions of “O happy day!” and “We all live in a yellow submarine”.

All was decided. Mandy would gas herself with the exhaust fumes from her car. But where to park the car? And what to wear? So many important decisions to make. She needed a hose to go from the car’s exhaust to the front seat. Or maybe she should sit in the back seat?

I suppose an ordinary garden hose would do the trick, thought Mandy as she drove to town for a final time to purchase the equipment.

That was when the car skidded on an icy bridge, plunged over the side and plummeted down a steep ravine. Mandy was killed.

1383. Accident

Yeah, well, all I wanted was a packet of cigarettes. So I had to drive into town, which is about ten minutes away, and when I got there they closed off the main street and everyone had to detour around. There was this old lady run over and killed.

She shouldn’t have been crossing there anyway. There’re places to cross, but she had to cross in the wrong place and got hit by a car and killed. Serves her right, I say. She won’t be doing that again!

The shop I always get my cigarettes from is slightly cheaper than other shops so I always go there. But it’s in the main street. And because of the old lady getting killed I was stuck in the blocked off main street for about three hours, and none of the shops there had opened because they’d blocked off people going in and out. And after all that, I came home and had forgotten to get cigarettes.

That old woman must’ve been half blind. It’s not my fault I ran her over.

1380. Traffic premonition

Miranda had a premonition that she was going to die in a road accident – and that very day. The only thing for it was not to go out in her car, but she had arranged to pick up the cat deworming pills from the vet’s that afternoon, and they were long overdue.

“Don’t be silly,” thought Miranda. “I can’t let these silly feelings dictate my life, otherwise nothing would ever get done. I shall go into town and pick up the cat’s pills, but be careful nonetheless.”

On the way back home from town, Miranda spotted a large concrete mixer truck approaching on the other side of the road. Miranda almost froze. This was it. It was part of her premonition. The concrete mixer truck would be the instrument of her death. She tried to slow down but instead she froze.

The concrete mixer truck came nearer. And nearer. It passed! Miranda was free! Saved! The premonition was a silly notion after all. “Thank goodness!” thought Miranda.

In her relief she missed the corner, ploughed into a bank, and was killed.

1352. Painted toenails

Rosemary had recently moved to another town with her fifteen year old daughter, Lissie. It was to be the start of a new life. Forget the past and move on, was Rosemary’s motto and motive. Thus far, she hadn’t met anyone new, not even the neighbours. She knew that gradually her circle of friends and acquaintances would grow. Lissie, on the other hand had quickly made some friends at school. In fact, she was staying at a school friend’s place for several days.

And then, around midnight, Rosemary got the call every parent dreads; there had been an accident. Would she mind coming around to identity the body?

“She a bit of a mess, ma’am,” they said, “make sure you bring some company.”

But Rosemary didn’t know anyone else. She had to do it alone.

“I don’t need to see her face,” Rosemary said. “I know her feet anywhere, and she always wore distinctive nail polish.”

And there were her feet… with the turquoise nail polish except for the big toenails a florescent pink – sometimes with spots on, sometimes not. Rosemary was inconsolable.

She said that they had just moved into the area and didn’t know anyone, so a simple cremation without ceremony was all that was required. That was done the next day.

Two days later, Rosemary got a phone call. “Mom, when on earth are you going to pick me up?” It was Lissie.

On the way to collect her daughter, all that a stunned Rosemary could think was, “Who the heck did I have cremated?”

1320. Every dog has its day

Anita was one of the country’s top dog judges. It was therefore doubly upsetting when she was driving along, her shoe came off, it got tangled somehow in the car brake pedal, and she ran over a dog.

“Oh my God!” wailed Anita, “I’ve run over a dog and it’s dead. If I’m not mistaken that was Pradaxa Bridge Over a Stormy Seas out of Pradaxa Muffy-Fluff and Concho Harry the Menace the Third. It was one of the few remaining breeding Norwegian Lundehunds in the country. Only last year it came first in the dog show for grooming and obedience. And to think, I have killed it. I’m so sorry. I shall visit Margaret the owner and ask if I can in any way make a contribution to alleviate the sorrow. Oh dear! Oh Pradaxa Bridge Over a Stormy Seas, I am so very sorry.”

“From memory,” muttered Anita trying to come to terms with the tragedy, “the Norwegian Lundehund has six toes on each foot, prick ears that it can control at will, and the ability to tip its head backward to touch the backbone. It was bred initially for puffin hunting. Oh woe!”

Anita visited Margaret the owner and gave her two thousand dollars as compensation. Perhaps she could put it towards getting another Norwegian Lundehund. Of course, a dog is irreplaceable. Pradaxa Bridge Over a Stormy Seas had a personality all its own. Every dog does. One doesn’t replace a dog; one simply gets another.

The funeral for the young boy taking the dog for a walk is next Tuesday.

1306. Things to sort through

There were quite a few things to sort through after Ivan died. The funeral was over a month ago, and Maureen knew that at some stage she would have to face the music and go through his things. They had never married, but had been together for twenty-two years. Everyone presumed they were married. Ivan had never popped the question. Children even called Maureen “Mrs Doubroff” although legally her name was “Winters”.

Maureen had hand-written replies to all the cards, flowers and condolence letters she had received. She had bought a box of thank you cards, and wrote in each, “Thank you so much for your kind thoughts and heartfelt wishes during my sad loss.” She would have liked to have written “Thank you for your kind and prayerful thoughts” but who knows these days who is atheistic and who is not?

Ivan had died in a bicycle accident on a Saturday afternoon. He always went for a long bicycle ride every Saturday afternoon, even if it was raining. Maureen had no interest whatsoever in riding a bike. Saturday afternoon was “her time”, “her space”. She had told him to wear a safety helmet, but, oh no! he wanted to feel the wind as his bicycle raced down the steep hill.

The worst bit of sorting through his things was to be his backpack. He always took a little haversack with him on his cycle rides. It probably contained a bite to eat mid-afternoon or maybe something to read on a break from cycling. Or even his camera. He had the haversack on his back when he crashed headfirst into a tree on the steep hill attempting to avoid a dog.

Maureen opened the pack. Indeed, there was an old anthology of short stories by Flannery O’Connor. And his camera. Maureen downloaded the last photographs he took onto her computer.

Oh dear. Oh goodness me. Maureen had no idea. She felt quite sick. Maureen pressed the delete button. It was a secret she carried to her grave.

1231. Don’t you dare

Dale was demonstrating to his children how to best peel an orange using a knife when he accidentally cut off his finger. They phoned for an ambulance and it set out immediately only to crash into a cyclist at an intersection. The cyclist was killed. At the cyclist’s funeral, or more particularly at the cup of tea afterwards, old Mrs Clifton choked on a cucumber sandwich and was beyond revival by the time anyone performed the Heimlich manoeuvre. At Mrs Clifton’s funeral, Jack met Rachel and they fell in love and got married and Rachel was expecting but it was an ectopic pregnancy and they lost the baby, but later they had another baby who grew up to be a tyrannical man who beat up his wife and children, and one of the children was a malfunctioning individual and murdered three people, all of whom were destined to become great artists of one sort or another, but their careers were through before they had even started. The painting that one of them was destined to paint, and never did, would have been lost in an attic for decades only to be found by a destitute widow who was trying to feed her eleven children. She could’ve sold it for millions. One of her eleven children was the great-great grandchild of Dale, who was now home from hospital minus the missing finger, and was about to demonstrate to his children once again how to best peel an orange using a knife when his wife declared vehemently DON’T YOU DARE! DON’T YOU DARE!