I Attended My Doctor's Funeral

by R.K. West

I attended my doctor’s funeral. Five years my junior, he died from complications of old age. My complications are of a different sort. Doctor Romanov understood me - or his patience seemed like understanding. I mourn for myself as much as for him. Now I must find someone who will be open-minded regarding my chronic toe spasms, mystery allergies, and a disturbing tendency to suddenly laugh heartily without provocation, as I did at the funeral.

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Credit: This originally appeared at Paragraph Planet

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R.K. West is a co-editor of Sudden Flash

 

The Old Man and His Grandson

From the collection of the Brothers Grimm

Just for fun, we occasionally publish vintage stories from historic authors.

There was once a very old man, whose eyes had become dim, his ears dull of hearing, his knees trembled, and when he sat at table he could hardly hold the spoon, and spilt the broth upon the table-cloth or let it run out of his mouth. His son and his son’s wife were disgusted at this, so the old grandfather at last had to sit in the corner behind the stove, and they gave him his food in an earthenware bowl, and not even enough of it. And he used to look towards the table with his eyes full of tears. Once, too, his trembling hands could not hold the bowl, and it fell to the ground and broke. The young wife scolded him, but he said nothing and only sighed. Then they brought him a wooden bowl for a few half-pence, out of which he had to eat.

They were once sitting thus when the little grandson of four years old began to gather together some bits of wood upon the ground. ‘What are you doing there?’ asked the father. ‘I am making a little trough,’ answered the child, ‘for father and mother to eat out of when I am big.’

The man and his wife looked at each other for a while, and presently began to cry. Then they took the old grandfather to the table, and henceforth always let him eat with them, and likewise said nothing if he did spill a little of anything.

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The brothers Jacob (1785–1863) and Wilhelm (1786–1859) Grimm were German academics who collected and published traditional folk tales. Although their work, heavily revised, is now largely associated with children's stories, the originals were not always intended for children, and often contained levels of violence, sex, and unhappiness that have been edited out of the versions familiar to us.

 

October 8, 2025

Inefficiency
Jeff Kennedy

Reunion
B.C. Nance

Breathing in Circles
Richard M. Ankers

Garage Band
R.K. West

The First Word She Wrote
Huina Zheng

The First Word She Wrote

by Huina Zheng

Lan’s knuckles stiffened, her grip on the pencil awkward, clenched tight as if it might slip away. These hands had planted rice in the paddies, scrubbed dishes in restaurant sinks, scoured hotel toilets, yet never once held a pen.

Six-year-old Lilin leaned close, her soft little hand propping up Lan’s coarse finger. “Grandma, your index finger should go here.”

Lan lifted her gaze to her daughter, Mei. Her face gave nothing away, but behind the glasses that had corrected countless student essays, her eyes glimmered. “Remember how to write 人?” Her voice was deliberately stern.

After dinner, the living room turned into a classroom, the dining table their desk. Lilin would start first grade in half a year. “Learn alongside her,” Mei said. “Isn’t your greatest regret never setting foot in a school?”

Lilin’s small feet swung beneath the chair as she clamored for a contest. Lan bent low, the pencil tip inching across the paper: one slant, then another. The character stood like a tiny figure, legs spread apart, just as Mei had explained the first time.

Mei leaned down to compare the words, the corners of her mouth lifting. “They both look good.”

Lan gazed at the trembling character beneath her hand, her heart turning soft. She thought: whether at six or sixty, the first scratch of a pen breaking ignorance rang just as clear.

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Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.

 

Garage Band

by R.K. West

The guys started a garage band, but they had no access to a garage, so they rehearsed in the house and jokingly called themselves the Living Room Four. The drummer’s girlfriend changed it to Living Room Floor. The living room floor was where they were all found, unconscious, after the gas leak that could have blown the place up, but didn’t. Everyone recovered fully, but the experience was unnerving. They suspected sabotage by a music-hating neighbor, but the city inspector said the old pipes had simply cracked under the stress of an already-faulty foundation further weakened by months of excess vibration.

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R.K. West left a good job in the city, sold everything, hit the road, and ended up living next to the mighty Columbia River. West's writing has appeared at Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, Right Hand Pointing, Bright Flash Literary Review, 101 Words, Six Sentences, and others.

 

Breathing in Circles

By Richard M. Ankers

A chest rises. A heart beats. Two synchronous lungs expel the waste of this life into a world gathering more. I’m breathing in circles, suffocating myself slower than slow. What’s worse, I want to.

Outside, indefinite people look at me in indefinite ways. There’s no reading them, these dark-shaded visages living in sonic worlds of their own. They stand as apart from reality, as I do from them. I’ve never felt so alone.

The clouds pass overhead in a lacklustre display of what was and what might never be repaired. Repaired! I sneer at my stupidity. It’s not like sticking a plaster on it. Something either is or isn’t. There’s no could or might or perhaps, not in the real world. Is this real?

The dogs go around in pairs here, but the cats wouldn’t dream of it. Shadows linger longer than they should. The night comes as a blessing, not a curse. The darkness disguises what the sun only ever reveals. This endless night is a balm to the barmy, succour to the suckers. But what is it to me?

These vitriolic outbursts define me. Unanswerable questions are all I know. I want more, though, to skip and play and laugh and dance and live. Yes, live. I want to live again. To be as a child, carefree and joyous. To believe in Father Christmas and not see him shot into red and white chunks. I want to play on green grass and dip my toes in azure water. These are my hopes and dreams. Are they too much to ask?

I remember when the air was precious, and the clouds rained clear water from only temporarily unclear skies. When the sun rose in tangerine segments and set in tomato horizons, this was my time, one of fresh fruit and nature. Now, the rain runs thick with filth, and thicker still when it strikes humanity’s work. The sewers fill with it and oceans choke on it. Yet, we do nothing, refusing to stop.

Breathing in circles, I term it. The unnatural act of un-purifying the soul, of topping up on chaos and drowning eyes open wide. I feel it in my every atom, see it in my dreams. I want to scream, to cry, but my box for a room has no door or window, and no one cares to listen.

Outside, a tree rustles one last leaf to the floor. A flower closes with a creak. A stream pleads for fish to swim its empty channels. Gaia groans her last.

The circle is closed.

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Richard M. Ankers is the English author of The Eternals Series, Britannia Unleashed and co-author of The Poetry of Pronouns Books 1 & 2. Richard has featured in Daily Science Fiction, Love Letters To Poe, Starspun Lit, and feels privileged to have appeared in many more. Richard lives to write.