Happy Birthday

It was pouring rain, but I just couldn’t leave on his birthday, Christmas Day. I placed the pine cone wreath against the headstone, the red bells I added for the holiday chiming.

Drenched, I kneeled and said a silent prayer. I teared at the memory of his last birthday, ecstatic after he tore open the wrapping and saw it was golf clubs; his blue eyes lit the room.

I stood for a few more minutes reflecting.

As I touched the tombstone, I felt a shiver up my arm and one of the bells landed by my foot.

“Happy Birthday, Georgie.”

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Warmth

Kathy’s headstone was weather beaten. I hadn’t been to the grave site in years and the memory of her death hit me all over again.

“Keith, he’s heading straight toward us!” Kathy screamed and then all went dark.

A drunk driver hit us head on. I was hospitalized for eight months in a coma and my wife died on impact. I was left to take care of our young son by myself.

I leaned close and placed the red roses next to her name on the stone. “I miss you, Kathy.”

A sudden warmth ran up and down my spine.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Echo Of Inevitability

Sounds become muffled. All she hears is an echo bouncing off the walls. For an infinitesimal moment her soul levitates, detaching from the present. She looks at the doctor’s face as words grow inaudible. A silent scream explodes from her lungs into an invisible body spasm. A voice in her head continues unrestrained: ‘She’ll be alone” but her mind allows her to compose herself as she kisses minuscule freckles on her daughter’s face. As chubby little fingers wipe off her tears, she peers into the eyes of Innocence, so intrinsic, untainted.

The headstone inscribes: ‘RIP Innocence. Your life starts anew.’

From Guest Contributor Andrea Damic

Amateur photographer and author of micro and flash fiction, Andrea Damic, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, lives in Sydney, Australia. Her words have been published or are forthcoming in 50-Word Stories, Friday Flash Fiction, Microfiction Monday Magazine, Paragraph Planet, 100 Word Project & TDDR with her art featuring or forthcoming in Rejection Letters, Door Is A Jar Magazine, and Fusion Art’s Exhibitions. One day she hopes to finish and publish her novel. You can find her on TW @DamicAndrea, Facebook or Instagram.

Close Memories

It’s Halloween and I’m at my wife’s grave for her anniversary. She died three years ago, and I made a promise that I would be there every year to place a large pumpkin next to her headstone.

Halloween had been Terrie’s favorite holiday. She enlivened the house with carved pumpkins on every table, spooky collectible houses with eerie music and lots of candy for the children.

I missed her, but I kept the memories of her love close.

When I turned to leave, I felt something touch my arm.

I looked back at the grave and the pumpkin was gone.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Forever In Sunset

Seamus liked this time of day for visiting Breige. It seemed fitting.

She’d enjoyed sitting outside in her Yorkshire Fiddleback, just under the scullery window, breathing in the satisfied air of a full day’s work done as the chickens clucked down the hours to twilight.

She’d watch the sun set across the farm.

“Hell of an old gal,” Seamus sighed, manoeuvring to stand in the spot, watching his shadow sweep along the cemetery path.

The sun dipped, sending the shade of her headstone growing alongside his until it was shoulder to shoulder.

He reached out, smiling as the shadows embraced.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Neglect

Lichen and moss had made their home on the intricately carved headstone while a ravenous community of ivy sought to embrace it.

The man wondered who Charlotte was. All the superficial dedications were there, though the surname was hidden. Who had she been? Was there no family to visit and maintain the plot...or did they believe in allowing it to age as naturally as their progenitor?

He crouched and pulled back some of the thicker growth from the bottom.

“...leaving behind...”

He read the names. One was unusual, like Gran’s.

He brushed ivy aside.

The surname was his own.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

After Midnight

After midnight, we climb the cemetery fence.

The sky is black as ink, but Gordy’s brought a flashlight. He’s been out of juvie for two days now.

I follow him to the far corner of the plot, wind brushing my clothes like ghosts.

“This is it,” he says.

His dad’s name is on the headstone along with this year’s date, him having died while Gordy was locked up.

I’ve seen the stripes on Gordy’s back, his broken nose, of course, but when Gordy takes out a sledge hammer, winding up, I grab his arm, saying, “Do that and he wins.”From Guest Contributor Len Kuntz

Len is a writer from Washington State, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE AND NEITHER ARE YOU out now from Unknown Press. You can also find him at lenkuntz.blogspot.com