Grandpa Al radioed coordinates during the Korean War.
He was quiet, loved his Yankees, and sipped O’Doul’s in the summertime.
He had a fake leg and owned a ukulele, too –
A sweet, beautiful instrument boxed up in his basement.
I can see him now.
He’s smiling. Sipping. Strumming and plucking.
“Grandpa Al” was originally published in Fifty Word Stories. Click here to see the original publication.
***
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When the lightning danced across the sky and the deep thrum of thunder carried out across the plains for the fifth night in a row, he knew the end had come.
Torrents of rain and softball-sized hail pounded all around him, devastating his crops, ripping through them like swinging scythes.
***
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It was well past witching hour. We huddled together, silent, as we tiptoed past tombstones and stumbled over crumbling stone walls, the moon our lone guiding light. When ghosts appeared, we bolted back toward base, trying to avoid their ghastly flesh. We drank the sweet summer air in gulps. The man who lived in the nearby trailer threw his front door open, aimed his shotgun in our direction, and yelled wild whiskey curses into the night. By the time he fell silent, we had morphed into phantoms, shadows, creatures of the night – quiet as the dead beneath our quivering feet.
***
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When John entered, he was thrust back into his old world, forced to live out his new life firmly rooted in the ground.
See — John became a tree.
As he aged, he understood tranquility. He became home to animals and insects alike.
He still stands.
***
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An old man named Luke entered the Humane Society alone. He walked with a limp and wore a stern expression.
“Heard about the Golden Retriever pups,” he said. “Mind if I see them?”
The assistant brought him back to the kennels. The puppies yipped and cried as expected, crawling over one another and jumping about clumsily. Half of them already wore yellow tags, marking their future owners.
Out of the corner of his eye, Luke spotted a dog two kennels over. The mutt was a bit older — probably at least eight or nine, judging by his gray snout. He was somber. He didn’t bark. Instead, he gazed at the man, almost in deep contemplation.
Luke approached him. “What’s your name?” he asked. The dog tilted his head ever so slightly. The man glanced at the tag on the door: Paws.
“How’d an old guy like you end up in a place like this? Guess you could probably ask the same of me.”
Luke dropped down to a knee as Paws walked closer.
“Hey,” Luke called over to the assistant, “what’s his story? I think I’d like to take him home and tell him mine.”
***
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Blaise watched his wife from the cabana. She was ankle-deep in the Caribbean, collecting seashells – a perfect memory.
When he gulped the thin mountain air, trapped in an icy crevasse, he inhaled her. Hypothermic, somewhere above Camp 4, he’d surely die. But the summer breeze would take him home.
***
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I watch you from the windows, but you don’t notice me. Not ever.
You, tall man with the beard, are the first to wake. Sometimes the little girl joins you early in the morning when the sun has barely risen. She helps you brew the coffee, feed the dog, and let him out. He’s kind of nasty, if I’m being honest. He’s the only one who glances in my direction, though. Most of the time he chases me away, and I retreat to the skies.
When the woman and louder child — the boy, the one who cries and clings to her — come downstairs, you all enjoy breakfast. You cook. You eat. You sing and laugh and play. Yet you never see me.
I call to you in the mornings, and afternoons, and evenings — even at night, when the lights are out and the stars guide me to your dwelling — but you carry on with your little ones and your love. Your life.
The days turn into months, the months into years. I try to sing to you. No one listens. You change before my eyes. The boy and the girl grow taller, thinner. She has ribbons in her hair, and he wears a cap on his head. You seem happy.
A third child appears one day, as loud as the others used to be. Now they’re a different kind of loud.
The seasons change again and again. You have specks of gray in your hair. The woman’s has turned silver, wavier.
My bones grow old, worn. Still, I try to sing. One day in late spring, when the trees are in full bloom, I fall from a high branch. I’m too tired to do anything about it. It feels like the end.
But then you appear. You stand over me. You kneel — murmur something. It sounds like music.
And then the girl appears, and the boy. The woman and new child, too.
You’re all here with me. It’s all I ever wanted, but now I’m too tired to sing.
I take it all in — your faces, the trees, the never-ending sky — and close my eyes.
***
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One of my ancestors is named Lewis Dudley Deming. He was born in 1820 and spent most of his life on the Hudson River as a boat pilot and captain between Albany and New York City. Though I will never be a riverboat pilot, I can’t help but feel the same draw to the Hudson that Lewis presumably felt. For some reason, my life has led me here, and it’s where my family calls home: the Hudson River Valley.
I’ve spent the past decade of my life either on or around this river. As a result, it provides me with a constant source of inspiration. Some of my best story ideas have come from quiet mornings, exploring or hiking along its banks.
That’s what you’ll receive if you choose to follow my Substack newsletter — my stories from Along the Hudson.
I will be updating this space with stories from my collection of archived fiction and creative nonfiction from my Substack newsletter. To check out my Substack, which has new stories and writing prompts delivered twice a week, please click on this link. If you like the material, I hope you’ll consider signing up.
Thanks so much for reading this. I hope you’ll continue this writing journey with me!
I hope everyone is doing well and staying healthy.
I wanted to give a quick update regarding my Substack newsletter, Micro 2 Go. Several changes have been made – all good things!
Roughly a month ago I started to create daily writing prompts, and I named this section of the newsletter Prompts 2 Go. These prompts are sent out via email to all subscribers every morning at 7:00 AM (EST). The intended audience is for any writer, at any stage, who is looking for “story starters” or daily writing exercises. My newsletter could also be suitable for English teachers or creative writing instructors – or students!
In addition to the daily prompts, I’m sending out short fiction (or microfiction) twice a week. These stories are sent out at 8:00 AM every Monday and Friday.
If you are interested in checking out Micro 2 Go or signing up, please click here.
Thanks so much for considering. I hope your writing ventures are going well!
Spillwords Press published my short fiction titled “A Mile Away” on November 5th, 2021. The story is about overcoming obstacles, not giving up, and the importance of being a steadfast parent.
Justin Deming - Writer 