Christmas Morning

Ben watches the kids open their presents. Sharon's smile is frozen in place. His too. It's like a hard layer of snow has settled over everyone, precluding self reflection.

He remembers the frenetic joy that would build as his presents got bigger, even as they became fewer. After the last one, a shameful disappointment set in, a feeling he refused to acknowledge even to himself.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He slinks to the bathroom to read the texts in solitude. Sharon already suspects.

He uses the holidays as an excuse not to say anything. Let's wait until January.

Dream Beach

He walked along the beach he’d frequented as a child in holidays long ago.

“All those years,” he thought, “and my life has had as much significance as a grain of sand on this shore!”

“Even my memories are fading,” he reflected, as the past receded ever further year on year.

“My senses too are dulled. The sights and sounds of the sea are not as vivid as before.”

Hearing the mesmerizing cadence of the waves he felt he was walking in a dream.

Yes, it would soon be time for his return to the dust from whence he came.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Of Weak Spots

Summer holidays meant wagon rides and a delicious break from school.

On the run for letting the poultry loose, my brother and I were making a hidden treehouse.

Later, we would have gone to the bank, devoured stolen nuts, nailed floorboards, as punishment. Together, we would have made jokes. Of weak spots on the fence and Granddad!

However, the treehouse being too feeble, our hands slippery from juice, hearts too unwilling, he fell to death.

Standing on the desolate bank, I glance at the familiar walnut blooms at Johnson’s. I wonder how we never discovered the weak spot in life.

From Guest Contributor Swatilekha Roy