All Stories

I read the headline with bleary eyes: A Glass of Wine a Day Could Save You from a Heart Attack. At two bottles a day, my heart must have been bullet-proof.

I looked in the mirror. Gone were the sparkling eyes, the boyish looks that wowed the ladies. Instead, a ruddy-faced alcoholic glared back at me. What the hell had happened?

But I knew the answer to that—I looked at the photo taped to the mirror: when she had died, so had I.

A searing pain twisted my gut and I barrelled out the door, heading back to the bar.

My shadow falls across her bed. The room is quiet except for the constant beeping of the machines. The fluorescent light is blinding me. I hate that dazzling brightness.

She doesn’t notice me hovering at our pillow. I caress her cheek and whisper:

“So much pain.”

Her eyes flutter, but remain closed. She tries to speak, but I can see the pain washing over her body in waves.

“I promise to stop back tomorrow.”

I clasp her hand before leaving, linger a moment. I didn’t come for her today.

Even though they resist, they eventually follow me through that door. Always.

Madeline clasped her beloved’s hand and closed her eyes. The day she had dreamed of was finally here. In just minutes she would be Mrs. Darren McGregor. She sighed, savoring his sublime baritone voice.

‘I, Darren, take you, Miss Lassiter–’

‘Wait, what?’

“Miss Lassiter!”

Madeline opened her eyes to see the algebra teacher standing over her desk.

“Huh?”

“The answer to number seven, please.”

“Oh.” Madeline unclasped her hands and peered at her notebook. “Um, 13b
squared.”

“Incorrect. Mr. Traynor, your answer, please.”

“23b squared.”

“Correct. Do you see your mistake, Miss Lassiter?”

“Yes, Mr. McGregor,” said Madeline, blushing. “I do.”

I saw him only once in my life, Santa Claus. I was seven years old, living back on the farm.

Hardly sleeping with excitement, I heard a strange rustling. Silently I crept downstairs, peering around the wooden bannister into the living room.

And there he was. Dirty red suit, big black plastic sack, raggedy beard, much skinnier than I’d imagined. Knowing I couldn’t be seen as it would spoil the magic, I breathed in the moment and tiptoed back to bed.

Christmas morning, I woke up to mum screaming that the presents had gone.

I never told a soul my secret.

Each year my grandfather builds a wall. It weaves its way across our garden, dividing shed from house in a meandering river of grey rocks. Beginning in summer, he places stone on cement, cement on stone until his back aches, his shoulders hunch and his face falls into the ashen mask of the lonely undertaking.

Then he smashes it. With unearthed strength, he swings his hammer in great waves of intensity, striking until only shards litter the grass and dust hangs in the frosty November air. Panting, he stands among the fresh rubble, his wrinkled face seeming smooth, serene. Complete.

“I don’t want to be just any woman,” he confesses while caking on foundation. “I want to be a goddess.”

He gives himself smoky eyes, paints his lips candy-apple red, and applies lashes as large as seashells.

“Like Juno, Aphrodite,” he continues, “…or Bette Davis.” His wink sparkles like sapphires.

After dotting a beauty mark, he adds the final touch: a dazzling auburn wig.

He hesitates, his smile fading, as he looks at the photograph of his mother. “Someone like you,” he whispers sadly.

“Please welcome, Miss Chandelier!” The announcer exclaims.

He grins coquettishly. “Showtime,” he says, and struts on stage.