For Us

Nesbit and Gibley have their stage.


“I’m dying.”

“Me too.”

“How shall we do it?”

“Dying? How shall we do dying?”

“How shall we die?”


“Do we both wither and writhe on the floor, gasping for our last breaths and then do it?”

“Do what?”

“Do we scream out our lungs, rip out our hair and then do it?”

“Do what?”


“Ah, yes. No, no. That’s too dramatic.”

“Alright then.”

“I have it. Let us say our final words.”

“Yes. Our final words. I’ll have a think.”

“We’ll write them down. You go lie over there, pretend you’re in a coffin. Then you say, ‘These are my final words’ and then you begin.”

“Okay. I have had a long, healthy life. I have been happy and sad. I have been in love and in anger. I have – you’re not writing this down!”

“You didn’t say ‘These are my final words.’”

“What did you think they were?”

“I thought perhaps you might be monologuing.”

“These are important words. Words I would like to be remembered by. I need to have them written down.”

“Why don’t we try something else?”


“No one will read this.”

“Carve it then.”

“Into what?”

“That tree.”

“That tree will die.”

“Ah. Into the rock then.”

“I’ll be dead before I can get a single letter out.”

“Never mind then.”

“Boring, isn’t it?”


“Let me have another go. I have my final words.”

“Right. Off you go.”

“Dear Lord. I –

“Dear Lord? Dear Lord? You don’t believe in a Lord!”

“Yes I do.”

“No you don’t. You’re saying that because you want to get into Heaven.”

“No I’m not.”

“You have never prayed in your life.”

“And I shall be forgiven.”

“You’re coming to Hell, if anything. With me.”

“Am I?”


“Alright then. That sounds nice. We’ll be together.”


“How do we get in?.”

“To Hell?”


“I’m not sure. We might just…go.”

“Is there a line?”

“Most probably.”

“We’ll queue together. It won’t be boring.”

“Yes. Good idea.”

“Shall we go?”


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