Grief

They say time heals all wounds.

Sadly, I now recognize the triteness of this aphorism.

First of all, deadly wounds never get the opportunity. Particularly severe ones can be permanently debilitating. Even if you learn to live with them, you're forever impaired.

People who've lived through the most traumatic wounds might have something insightful to say about the nature of time and it's ability to heal. Learning to forget is not the same as healing. It's just a coping mechanism that allows you to deal with acute pain.

Those who have experienced true grief no longer take comfort in aphorisms.

Former Glory

She sits in a worn wheelchair, slightly swaying to the raspy and sultry melodies playing on the radio behind her. Drunkenly sloshing the dark brown liquid in the bottle she’s nursed throughout the night. Her eyes are as heavy as her heart, drooping with sadness and weeping with grief. Taking another sip, she sighs as the liquid scorches down her throat. She hums along to the music, reminiscing times when she played the same syncopated rhythms on stage. Her knobby and wrinkled fingers dance in the air on her ghost piano while swallowing sobs, thinking about her glorious old memories.

From Guest Contributor Sa'Mya Hall

The Rotary Phone

The butter-yellow rotary phone was sitting on the carpet in the living room of the empty apartment. It’s cord and wires were disconnected and curled around its body.

David walked into the room. His eyes began to water as grief overcame him. He had not made it home for his grandmother’s funeral. He was not there for the disposition of the contents of her home, the home that was his refuge growing up. Now it was too late to say goodbye.

“I love you, gramma,” he whispered.

David bent over, picked up the phone, and quietly walked out the door.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

The Origin Of A Species

To this date, she had led a fairly convenient life. No big ups, but no big downs either, aside from the occasional deep grief over the loss of a pet.

But all of this was about to change, the turn of history would change, if not for the rest of humanity, at least for her. She had hesitated some time, but finally made up her mind.

This was definitely the last time she was going to wait in line at this store.

When it was her turn, she said: “Can I speak to the shop manager? Tell him it’s Karen.”

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.

Afterlife

People say when you die you see a tunnel. A bright light. Angels. Pearly gates. Or hellfire and brimstone, depending on your earthly deeds.

Lies.

There is no tunnel. No welcome by ghostly outspread arms. No river of milk and honey.

Instead, I see a river of blue. Vertical lines of binary code, scrolling endlessly in the void. The emptiness is so vast, it tugs at my soul, a remembrance. Grief.

I begin to walk, seeking. I push back the lines of code like a curtain. And then there you are. Your ocean eyes, your quicksilver smile.

“Welcome home, love.”

From Guest Contributor Heather R. Parker

Mother

“Mother is upset,” a Wiradjuri tribal elder said. All heads nodded in agreement. Elders from the Ngungawal and Walgaulu tribes had traveled days to be at this meeting of Aboriginal peoples.

“Our sacred trees are gone,” he continued. “Our land is on fire; our mother is on fire.”

“She is hotter every year. More fires burn this year than ever,” a Ngungawal elder said. “We must appease our mother. We have perpetual grief, but the time is to focus on the mother, not us.”

Heads nodded.

Meeting was over and nothing was resolved. The elders returned to their burned-out bush.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin

The Rights And Duties Of A Mother

The apartment is bare of any ornament.

Hannah had expected to find a shambles, hence the bucket of cleaning supplies in her hand. It's difficult to believe he's lived in this studio for the past six months. The only sign that she's in the right place is a stack of his clothes in the corner, neatly folded. Otherwise, there's none of his personal effects, even in the wastebasket.

Her grief isn't prepared for this. She's a mother, long accustomed to fixing the messes of her children. Finding that his last act had been to clean his room leaves her devastated.

A Survivor’s Calling

Mouth agape, eyes widened with fear, I looked on to what my world had been. Everything I lived for was swept up in a distant array of mud, debris and...corpses. Even through my grief, I knew the landslide had chosen me, to avenge everyone's lives that came to an end in this short, devastating moment. This was my calling, which I would live through for the rest of my life, bearing their dreams.

Standing strong, even until this day, I recall this distant memory. With tears beginning to well in my eyes I see hope glimmering from the future.

From Guest Contributor Danielle Simpfendorfer

My Armor

He was my life, my armor, my smile, my savior, my everything. Lost him! I Will never see him again. I'm sad, grief stricken, but not devastated. I did my best, was there for him with everything required to always keep him going. I did love him more than anybody else and we shared the same feeling. He loved me more than anybody else. His kisses I miss. I don't cry but long for him secretly. All day I laugh, I'm merry with my toddler. The moment I close my eyes he's there waiting for me.

I sleep more now...

From Guest Contributor Manmeet S Chadha

In Darkness...Light

I helped move your walker over the curb. You listened as I shared my emotional grief. We became friends.

One day I drove to meet you. Snow fell in sheets. The unknown lurked beneath. I swerved, stopped. Not far, the lake within walking distance.

Cabins sent curls of wood stove smoke into late autumn air. I would see yours with a candle at the window and you behind, waiting for me.

Years passed. With them storms I couldn’t control. Passing of friendships, from start to finish. Even ours. Candles lit. Extinguished.

I read your obituary. Memories touched with an afterglow.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.