Life, A Very Short Story

You talk to family photos, suffer from migraines, play Chopin with unshowy facility on the parlor piano. Strangers often comment on your eyes – gull’s eyes, someone called them. The sea heaves just outside your door, and from the back window, you can see the cemetery where your father is buried. Weeds have sprouted up overnight among the headstones. You aren’t interested in stories of success, only failure. “Sunshine,” you say, “is an overrated virtue.” The words echo. There’s a feeling that something terrible is about to happen. You watch for a while and then shrug. Maybe because it’s all disappearing.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press and Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

End Of An Era

I never heard my grandfather say a cross word to my grandmother. They never had an argument. Love and devotion from another era.

She started fading and could not take care of herself; he was there.

She stopped recognizing him; he wouldn’t leave her side.

She needed more care than he could give so she moved into a facility; he moved in to be with her.

She faded from his sight after 63 years and 37 days of wedded bliss. I watched him cry for the first time that day.

I buried my grandfather and grandmother on the same day.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

Scrabbling For Vanity

Most had outside toilets, located in narrow backyards just far enough away from kitchen doors for odours to dissipate.

Granddad’s was a stark brick shell with a plank-door, cord for inner handle, neatly torn newspaper for wiping, and Adamant throne a chasm to toddlers.

The landlord was actually well-to-do and had provided an Edwardian commode, but this was purely for night-time excursions by the ladies of the house.

The home of the paternal grandmother faced the cathedral; the toilet inside. She boasted poshness.

The facility was internal only because her house had no yard. She forever nagged about flushing properly.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid