Sunday Snippet

 

My snippet this Sunday is from a short story I wrote for the One Pulse Anthology put together by Dreamspinner Press after the Pulse Nightclub massacre. Saying Goodbye is a free read until 6/6/22 at midnight.  You can download your copy here: AMAZON

BLURB

Joaquin Gallegos and his only son Mario have been at odds for years. Unable to accept his orientation, Joaquin tried everything to mold the boy into his image until he ran out of time. Reaching out from beyond the grave, he is given one more opportunity to make amends.

Saying Goodbye is a poignant reminder that loving your child as they are born, instead of rejecting them for whatever reason, will ultimately bring joy rather than soul-crushing regret..

SNIPPET

My name is Joaquin Gallegos, and I died last night. The passing was unremarkable, except it occurred on a day when forty-nine other people met their untimely demise. No wonder it feels rather crowded here tonight.

In spite of the crush, I’m isolated, much like I’ve been the last ten years. People are congregating on the other side of the room—a holding station of sorts, waiting for the guys in charge to route them to their final destination. Are they aware of my history, and is that why they’re giving me a wide berth? Most of them are young and dressed for a night out on the town. Mario looked like that whenever he’d go out dancing with his friends.

They’re staring at me, and I look down at my chest to see if I have a sign announcing my core beliefs. Like a big H for homophobe or A for asshole. Judging by the pitying looks they’re sending my way, it’s a given they know. I’m a misguided jerk who alienated his only son for being gay.

If you’re hoping to hear what’s on the other side of death, you’re shit out of luck. I know less now than I did before I died. There are no angels hanging around to carry me off to my happy place, or their dreaded counterparts waiting to drag me down to hell, a favorite threat I tossed out whenever Mario, my son, tried to explain his orientation. All I know is that somewhere between dead and deader, there’s a seventy-two-hour grace period to take care of unfinished business. I’m not sure who made up the rules, but they were in place long before I arrived. The basics are as follows:

I can’t materialize wherever I want. Only the cool guys with wings get to work that parlor trick. My friends and family have to come to me if I want to see and hear them. They can’t see me, of course, but that’s just as well. I wasn’t the picture of health when I croaked, and cancer has a way of turning the best-looking people into frightening caricatures before they’re gone.

Only my personal belongings can tether me to an individual. If Mario decides to take my laptop, as I’m hoping, I can follow him no matter where he goes. Not that I want to intrude in his life more than necessary, but I need to be certain he reads my journal so I can clear my conscience and move on.

Those are the rules. Pretty easy, you’d think, but when you’re dealing with years of anger and resentment, it can be tough. I’m already impatient. Twenty-four of my allotted seventy-two hours have been wasted waiting for the key players to show up. Mario and my ex-wife, Rosa, are supposed to come by today. I stipulated it in my will, and Rosa has always been compliant, especially when it comes to something of this magnitude.

My condo is hot and stuffy, and it feels like it’s been deserted for years. The door opens abruptly, and they walk in. Mario looks great. He’s wearing a suit, for a change, and his hair is short and styled. He could pass for straight if I didn’t know better. Rosa, on the other hand, looks like shit. Her normally perfect hair is a mess. And there are bags under her puffy eyes…. Crying for me? Perhaps….