Tag: death

All Stories, General Fiction

World Tilting at Bedtime by Katya Lee

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By the time my mother mentions falling, I let the drone of her voice fade to the unawake part of my mind. Her words are a steady hum, punctuated by rattling breaths and muffled snorts as she clears the tangy scent of antiseptic from her nostrils. If I let my gaze drift away from her paper-white figure on the hospital bed, I can pretend that Iā€™m alone. In my peripherals, she blends into the monotony, clear and soft as water. The only thing that moves is her mouth, but her ramblings are like static ā€“ barely present, and even more unintelligible when I focus on them.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Also Henry by Tom Sheehan

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Jim Hedgerow was the boss of Riverbank Cemeteryā€™s burial crew, and this morning he was scratching to make sure he had enough help to ā€œopen upā€ a few places for ā€œquick deposit.ā€ At 7:30 the sun had jumped overhead, birds had their choirs in practice, and he had seen hard evidence of overnight guests in among the trees and full foliage at the edge of the cemetery along Fiske Brook.

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All Stories, Fantasy

A Bad Day for Death by Thurman Hart

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When I walked into Helen Arbuckleā€™s room, I knew something was wrong. Her eyes were bright. She was watching television and smiling. She was alive. And I mean that in a way that the nearly-departed are not supposed to be alive. She was dying, for Hellā€™s sake. The least she could do is have the decency to look the part.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller

Cause and Effect by Diane M Dickson

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The sound was awful and those who lived on the ground floor knew right away that something was terribly wrong. It wasnā€™t the clang and clatter made when kids chucked stuff over the concrete balconies, and it wasnā€™t the soft thud like the time the nutter on the tenth floor threw all her clothes over in a bin bag. This was a heavy ā€˜thunkā€™.

Josie sitting in the gloom at her place on the corner thought it sounded like the You Tube video of someone smashing their head into a watermelon. In fact, this was a sort of reverse truth and a darned good analogy according to the police.

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All Stories, Fantasy

A Door with a Thousand Locks by Ed Dearnley

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The usual doubts arrive as I cross the street, heading for the corner of Abbeville Road. This seemed like the right thing to do an hour ago, sitting in a pub on the South Bank, toasting our anniversary with a third glass of wine. But now Iā€™m here, all I can imagine is another rejection.

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All Stories, Fantasy

How Soul-Globing Works by Dino Alfier

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When you die, you find yourself on a sandy beach strewn with sacks, some old, some in tatters, still others weathered almost beyond recognition. All your orifices have been stitched shut. First you encounter the Bookkeeper, who opens the Ledger on your double spread and pores over the left-hand page to total all the times you have hurt others and yourself, what here they call your hurtlings.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Jimmy, the Architect by Dan Shpyra

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As he was falling from the rooftop, Jimmy`s whole life flashed before his eyes. That is why it was even more upsetting. A gap year in Australia, a few good years at college, and a job until he finds something better. After his skull would have crushed against asphalt, his brain splashed all over the road, and his broken limbs would be packed in a plastic bag, would there be a grand procession? Or, perhaps, just his parents and two or three friends would mourn him for a month. Falling, Jimmy knew: the latter was the case. They would have to use vague language during his eulogy sprinkled with cliches, for there was not much to tell.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Requiescat in Pace by Bill Huey

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Patrick Mulcahy awoke with a start after a night of fitful sleep. It was Monday, October 23, and this was the week he would die. On Thursday, October 28, at 3p.m., Patrick Mulcahy, 62 years and six months, would depart this life.

This doleful fact had come to him in a dream, but Pat had always had a knack for prediction, especially for death. He wasnā€™t a shaman or a mystic, but his gift was prediction. This made many people wary of him, but others flocked to him for predictions about sports, elections, and even the weather.

Being certain of the time and day of his death had its advantages, because it happened soon enough for Pat to enjoy a full life. His work as an actuarial consultant furnished him with both ample time and income, and Pat visited every major league ballpark in the United States. He went to spring training for his beloved Red Sox every spring, and even went to Cuba for the historic game in 2016, as a guest of David Ortiz.

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All Stories, General Fiction

Desert Dust by James Bates

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The middle-aged, balding man sitting behind the desk at the Arapahoe County Funeral Home looked up as I walked in. He smiled a greeting. ā€œGood morning.ā€

ā€œGood morning,ā€ I said, trying to be polite since I really didnā€™t want to be there. ā€œMy name is Sam Jorgenson. I think I talked to you earlier this week. I came for my fatherā€™s ashes.ā€

ā€œAh, Mr. Jorgenson.ā€ He nodded, his face taking on what I figured was his practiced look of sad commiseration. He stood up, came around his deck, and extended his hand. ā€œNice to meet you,ā€ he said. ā€œYes, we did talk. Iā€™m Jack Benson, the director here. May I offer my condolences.ā€

I shook his hand. It was dry and cold to the touch. ā€œThank you. Nice to meet you,ā€ I said.

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General Fiction, Short Fiction

Ā Black Flowers by Michael Ventimiglia

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Being home hurts. It’s a subtle sort of pain that isn’t always obvious, but it’s always there just the same. The aching starts the moment I cross the state line and it won’t stop ’til I cross it back over. I guess that’s just the price of having a past, having to live with it.

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