You Become The One They Leave Behind

Grandfather waved us goodbye in his distinctive style, up and down instead of side to side. As we drove off and he became smaller and further away, mother said ‘Poor old man.’ He was alone, and living the life he’d always lived - the life he wanted - but I understood her sentiment.

A generation on, and my father’s on his own. This time we’re separated by countries and we rarely get to wave.

It’s clear to me now that finally you become the one they leave behind. That’s the way it is. The way it has to be. And that’s alright.

From Guest Contributor David Dumouriez

Voices Of A New Generation

Dealing with young people at work, Carson experienced flashbacks to his own sometimes turbulent adolescence. He recalled vividly his occasional intense suffering, not from outside influences, but from his own changing body. In particular, an unanticipated growth spurt when he shot up several inches in height in a short period of time. He even got stretch marks around his knees. Growing pains are real.

As he monitored hundreds of gestation tanks occupied by genetically-modified beings constantly infused with growth hormones, Carson was assailed by endless waves of primal screams.

Who’d have thought growing a clone army would be so noisy?From Guest Contributor John H. Dromey

John’s short fiction has appeared in Mystery Weekly Magazine, Stupefying Stories Showcase, Thriller Magazine, Unfit Magazine, and elsewhere.

Old Flames

A haggard creature across the bar clutches her G&T with claw-like hands.

The aquiline nose stands out from the sunken skin, triggering a disconcerting recognition.

“It can’t be,” he thinks.

Sensing his gaze, the woman looks over.

The shiny dome where once was hair, the double chin, the beer paunch, are a disturbing parody of the man she’d known.

“Lawrence?”

They’d been passionate lovers a generation ago.

Overcoming mutual revulsion, they chat a while, no chemistry between them now.

The only chemical they have in common is the alcohol anesthetizing them until they go their separate ways into the night.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Thrill

“Not healthy,” Jan whispered to her surviving brother, peering into the darkened parlour where her mother sat, eyes fixed on the flickering screen of Brian’s cracked Smartphone.

Tom lifted and dropped his shoulders helplessly and returned to the closed-coffin wake in the other room.

Jan herself had only been able to watch the footage once: the glee of Brian hanging from a spar changing to terror as his grip had slipped.

The phone had been lucky enough to fall back onto the bridge.

Jan stared as her mother hit replay again. She’d even stopped sobbing.

“Friggin’ selfie generation,” she muttered.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Spending A Penny Dreadful

The Fleadh Ceoil festival was at its height. Those who hadn’t arrived early were relegated to rural camp-sites.

Still, even on the outskirts of the small Kerry village the women’s toilets were dutifully labelled with the Gaelige ‘MNA.’ It wouldn’t do for traditional/folk festivals to be less than authentic.

The next generation of the attending family carnivals had finished their setting-up chores and, thankful of the break, watched with some amusement as the drunk approached with strained gait and increasing urgency until finally bursting into the ‘Ladies,’ zip down.

Screams.

"Must be a wil’ handling being dyslexic," one mused.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid