Dead Men Don’t Drown: #5
(catch-up with all episodes here)
“Hi Mum, it’s me — ay’okay, well, sort of, because I popped up the shops for milk, bread, and a few bits, and saw two pottery Staffordshire dogs like Gran’s in the antique shop, so I went in to see whether they were worth anything.”
“No, not really, though if they had been I’d probably’ve flogged ’em because I don’t even like the things — no, jeeze, hang on, I’m keeping ’em, but when I told the girl Gran’s faced out towards the road, she actually offered her condolences.”
“Wait, what … what d’you mean, even when you were growing up they faced that way?”
I stare at the two Staffordshire earthenware spaniels on the windowsill, turned now to face indoors; with their backs to the harbour, the room gathers close around them, and something in their painted vigilance seems diminished, with nowhere left for their watching to go.
Mum rushes to jam jars, recycling, damp in the scullery, and whether I’ve eaten anything proper besides ice cream, while afternoon light thickens around the furniture and the dogs sit with their painted faces fixed on me.
Before the call ends, I cross the room and turn them back towards the harbour, as though facing them inward has interrupted a conversation that began long before I was born.
Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “rush”. Some images created with Midjourney; all writing is authentically my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.
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