Platero And I: Father

I have always known my father as a man with a beard, Platero.

He was a proud man—always mounted the fiercest stallion, never a simple donkey like you.

I sometimes saw him standing in front of the mirror with small scissors to remove rebellious or – with years passing – white hairs.

As a child I thought it was a fake beard, but I never risked tugging it.

According to the customs of this country it is up to the eldest son to remove the beard of the father, the undertaker said yesterday.

Guess what, Platero, it was real after all.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.

Boss

The dog was known as Boss by the Belfast housing estate kids. They heard harsh scratching as he desperately tried to crawl away from his tormentor, his muzzle leaving a dark trail of blood from where the first round had hit him in the face. His life trickled away from him through the short grey hairs on his jaw; an occasional desperate snarl ripping apart the cold morning air before he began whimpering again like a child.

Lining up the rifle sight, his tormentor watched the heaving chest, pressed the trigger and the pavement was awash with blood and fur.

From Guest Contributor Bernie Hanvey

Over(cast)

A jar of coconut oil sits on the sink. These days, she oils all the rough parts of her body: elbows, knees, and everything in between. Beneath her fingertips, the white glob melts quickly and glistens as it glides head to toe, her whole body suddenly pink before the mirror. She looks into her cunning eyes, searching for the humor in this beauty care. She smirks. The smell of the coconut makes her think of Paradise. What is she waiting for? The day unfolds. When she passes her hand over her head’s short silver hairs, she hears that funeral tune.

From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa