The old man descended the stairs on his matchstick legs to the outside section of the bar and hobbled out to the rusty fire pit where the glaring sun rendered Cherise invisible. As he approached, her body diffused as though he was nearing a pointillist painting.

He arched back, shielding his eyes from the sun, “I can barely see you, Lady! What you doing back here all by yourself?”

Before Cherise could answer he hollered, “Well, I’m Manny and you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through!” his legs bent stiffly like they were held together by stick pins. He wore holy jeans and an Iron Maiden t-shirt with an aged black leather vest. His face was sunken and his quivering smile revealed few teeth.

Manny said to Cherise, “What do you think about this plan: I’m starting a Saturday sermon out back here at three o’clock. Because church is closed and people are suffering! Hell, I’ve lost a few friends, not from illness but from loneliness! What do you think of that idea, Lady? We won’t out and out offer alcohol but it will be available.”

Cherise replied, “I think it’s a nice idea, Manny. I’d go, but I don’t go to church. I know what you mean about the loneliness though.”

Manny looked at Cherise with his watery eyes and cried, “That’s what I’m talking about! Loneliness is such a god-damned ignored thing these days!” he slapped his leg and Cherise imagined a big bruise already forming on it. He focused on the driftwood benches surrounding the firepit as though imagining them filled with a congregation, then waved and shuffled back inside the bar. Cherise closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the sun, its rays scattering her apart particle by particle.

Susan DeFelice graduated from Sonoma State University and recently moved to Georgia where she writes fiction and bakes.

Frankly, I blame the flowers.

It’s a nice gesture, bringing flowers to a grave. But people only think about the bringing. Not about the leaving. They don’t think about the roses three days brown and the cellophane slick with rain.

Do you know what a bouquet lying on a grave looks like? Like someone was there, but then left.

Certain flowers don’t get left. Because nobody put them there in the first place.

You know what wildflowers in a cemetery look like? Like covered tracks tripping up the surfaces of ground and underground. An overnight carpet of wild violets and snowdrops—that’s fuzz on your teeth. That’s sun on your cheek. That’s natural.

The bouquets in their plastic sheaths are natural too. It’s natural that the living want to arm themselves on entering a graveyard. Natural that they would want to leave something, too.

But this? This wasn’t natural. This was a grave turned to garden: Tulips plugged in the four corners. A banner of chrysanthemums, framed by freesia. Symmetric sentinels of foxglove. Not a bare patch of earth. Not a blade of green. Roses too red. Daffodils too yellow.

And the worst: the daisies with their pincushion pupils— a hundred wide-open mustard eyes lifted to the sky.

Who could sleep under all that watchfulness? Who could rest under such landscaped elegy? Could you lie still, laminated in petals?

Floral claustrophobia it was.

If I were Daniel Lazare, I would have risen from my grave, too.

Elizabeth Kiem is the author of a fictional series about psychic Soviet ballerina spies and a non-fiction series about George Balanchine’s ballets. She was born in Alaska, raised in Virginia, calls herself a New Yorker and lives in London.

Learn more about her TrapezeWriting workshops at elizabethkiem.com.

Alice and Robert made their way to the small beach near their apartment each afternoon. A summer surrounded by the same cluster of families, they had created private nicknames for the regulars there – Red Cap, Red Cap’s Husband, Chessman, and Silverback – but greater intimacy had not yet been theirs to savour. Although they were constantly learning words and expressions, the language barrier was still too high, their presence still too new. Foreigners did not come to live in this town and Alice had no idea how to relieve the locals of their circumspection. Simple greetings had thus far proven ineffective, but she hoped time would eventually bring them closer.

‘Are you coming for a swim?’ Robert asked her.

‘I’m too comfortable here. You’ll have to go without me this once.’

She watched him zig zag gingerly between the resting grandparents and restless children. Inch by inch, pebble by pebble until the lake was his again.

Robert swam out a hundred metres to where a number of small boats lay anchored. He hauled himself aboard one of them and Alice found herself envying his view of the ruins on the hill behind her. She wondered if she shouldn’t swim out to him, but getting to her feet, she sensed a change in the atmosphere. Something was happening. A stillness had fallen over the beach – it was as if they were at the theatre and the curtains had just parted. Frisbees and balls, so long the objects of fascination, were now allowed to simply roll away. A child ran up to Silverback and excitedly muttered words to him, one of which Alice understood – Irishman.

She looked out towards Robert. He was readying himself to dive from the boat and the beach held its breath. He hit the water a split second before the loud clap of his belly flop reached them. Infectious laughter met this punchline and Alice wiped away her tears of amusement a little guiltily. But they had seen her – she knew their secret now and Chessman approached her pleadingly with a finger over his lips, merriment in his eyes, begging her to keep it to herself.

‘Of course,’ she answered, ‘of course.’

The next afternoon, Alice and Robert swam out to the boats together. Leaving the water a little later, ears still echoing from the thunder of the latest impact, a young girl winked at Alice and offered delighted gestures of thanks. They could trust her now, for they had shared laughter. Ice broken, barriers unexpectedly surmountable now, it seemed the beach was beginning to open its arms in welcome.

Kevin Dardis is an Irish storyteller and musician based in Germany. Most of Kevin’s storytelling is still done orally. His stage shows – in German – relate in music and words his adventures, trials and tribulations in Northern Bavaria.