"Surely God would not have created such a being as man, with an ability to grasp the infinite, to exist only for a day! No, no, man was made for immortality."—Abraham Lincoln.
The Poe Toaster
- Introduction -
January 19, 1936. A young boy around the age of seventeen was camping at the graveyard with his two friends. It was silly dare, to stay up all night and brave the said horrors of the cemetery they were in. His two friends were asleep, heads lying on cold smooth rocks, thick blankets over their bodies to warm themselves. The boy remained awake, near the fire that they have tended hours ago, now all ashes and sparks. A small oil lamp besides him was the only thing that illuminated his writing in his journal, although very dimly.
The boy yawned and closed the notebook, leaned at a stone wall, then sighed. He did not bring a watch, but he could read the sky. It was early morning, and maybe a few more hours until the sun would rise up, and then the dare would be accomplished.
The boy looked around the cemetery. Nothing but cold and gray and bluish darkness.
He yawned again and laid his head on the ground, turned off the lamp, and closed his eyes.
He heard something faint in a distance. Footsteps, crunching on the snow and brown leaves. The boy opened his eyes.
And he saw him.
A man in dark clothing, holding a cane with one hand, carrying roses and a bottle with the other. He was walking rather slowly, but gracefully, weaving through the dirt pathway of the cemetery. The boy watched carefully, curious as to what the gentleman wanted with a dead man, having to come here this early in the morning. The boy wanted to wake up his two friends and tell them about this, watched with him this peculiar incident that was happening, but he was afraid that he might miss something.
The gentlemen stopped in front of an old worn grave. He laid his roses on the stone in a fashion, brandished a cup from his coats and opened the bottle he was carrying, his cane leaning on his side. Then with the cup in his hands, he raised his glass as if in a toast, and drank. The man seemed to linger for a while before putting the cup and the bottle down the grave, besides the bundle of roses. The man made a small bow, and walked away with the cane in his hand.
The boy waited for a long time until the gentleman was out of sight. Then he grabbed the lamp and walked quickly to the grave the man had once been.
The cognac bottle was still full, and the roses were arranged in a peculiar fashion. He brought the lamp up to see to whom the grave belonged. There was a bird—a raven—engraved on the top of the stone. And the stone said:
Original Burial
Place of
Edgar Allan Poe.
A/N: This is supposed to be a long oneshot that is supposed to be posted on Edgar Allan Poe's birthday last month. But, ah, life happened. I also decided to cut the oneshot into parts, but when the story is done I will post it as a oneshot in other websites. I may come back to revise the introduction. Sorry if it's too boring. The next part will come shortly. And I love reviews, guys, even if this is still incomplete.