Brian G. Ross is thirty-four and lives in Scotland. He has over ninety publications to his name - from humour (Defenestration) to horror (Murky Depths), mystery (Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine) to mainstream (Southern Ocean Review). He appears in the first three volumes of paperback horror anthology, Read By Dawn, available from Bloody Books, and An Eclectic Slice of Life, by Dark Prints Press. He is married, both to his wife and his words, and runs a blog of his literary wanderings at briangrantross.blogspot.com.

Two Stories (March 20, 2011. Issue 26. The SLAM & FLASH Issue!)

After the Flood

I ring the bell.

It is the only sound in this empty world, and I am its only voice.

I pass Miss Roberts from across the street, but death ignores life, and she does me. Eyes open, skin white like dough. She was my mistletoe kiss three years ago, and now she is gone.

I turn away and see Mr. Peters, although he doesn’t see me. We buy his fruit every Saturday.

Bought.

We kept his head above water when the supermarkets invaded town: now, nature keeps him afloat.

Irony, even in death.

*

The water stole away my Tracy only moments ago. Mother Earth’s current was stronger than she.

Stronger than me.

I couldn’t hold on. Baby, I’m so sorry.

Her scent still lingers. Purple bruises stain my wrists, but they will fade, unlike the bruise upon my heart.

I said goodbye, come back, I love you, I need you, don’t go, a thousand times over as the rush tore her away, but the decibel of her own demise was louder than my parting pleas.

*

Rain begins to fall. It is a cruel epitaph.

I wade on, trying to forget, searching for a why.

I ring the bell again.

Smoked

I spend thirty-five pounds every week on cigarettes, but I have never smoked. The smell offends me; the taste disgusts me. All I do is watch.

I sit by the lake and light another. I watch it burn, slowly down to the filter, as my mind drifts. The red glow takes me back to when I didn't have to do this; back to when the world made sense.

I once saw my dad smoke a cigarette in just over two minutes, for a bet; but with a small flame and a light breeze, she'll burn right down to her butt all by herself in a little under six.

Tonight she is quick.

I hold it like a pro – like dad before me. My fingertips are yellow: my clothes stink. I am my father’s son.

He is gone now. Lost to a nicotine-stained death. At the end he couldn’t breathe: he couldn’t do much at all. The end came to him with teeth.

“Why do you do it?” my wife asks.

“I have to.”

And I do.

It's not much, but it's something.

It's everything.

I crumple the packet and toss it into the water.

Tomorrow I will buy more.