Platero And I: Ode In The Garden

They say my garden is wild, Platero, as is my hair - Martha would be ashamed if she saw this garden.Don't they know this garden is an ode to Martha?

That every year when the leaves lose grip, I prune erratic. I seek your approval, Platero, because you‘ve seen Martha do it so often.

That hedge over there: sloppy and unevenly shaven; the bushes butterflies like to sit on, brusquely stripped of their thick branches - hopefully none vital.

That’s why this garden is an ode to Martha: because I’m lost without her and not just in the garden.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé (°1968 – Ronse, Belgium) started writing short stories whilst recovering from a sports injury and he hasn’t stopped since. Generally he writes them hatless and barefooted.

Limited Engagement

Curtain rises.

Exterior of a house, bushes, a weathered blue Chevy in the drive.

The door opens. Enter GRANDPA. Locking the door, he crosses to the car. Six-year-old JEFFREY sneaks out of the bushes and creeps up behind Grandpa.

"Boo!"

The new game. He's incorrigible.

Grandpa jumps. "Jesus Motherfucking Christ!" Clamping a hand over his chest, he staggers, collapsing onto the side of the auto. Grandpa slips to the ground and is still.

Wide-eyed Jeffrey cries.

A spotlight from the stage shines out. The crying, a baby's voice.

The curtain falls.

No curtain call.

The houselights come up.

Get out.

From Guest Contributor Erik C. Martin

Erik lives and writes in San Diego. He misses Comic-Con, his critique group, and SCBWI meetings. Follow him on Twitter at @ErikCMartin.