Ben Stewart

I once read that if you’re lost in the desert, take such water on offer, regardless of the source. Sage advice, but I never expected that little nugget of wisdom to have such a literal application. 

“Thanks, granny.” I said, accepting the cup from my dead grandmother’s desiccated hand. “You really didn’t need to come all this way just to give me some water.” 

Had she been able, my granny probably would have said it wasn’t any trouble and that she would do anything if it meant comforting her favorite grandson. I was her only grandson, but still. Though sunken, gaunt, and terrifying to look at; her face radiated a familiar warmth that put me at ease. 

I shifted under the outcropping of rock, searching for comfort but finding only a rock stabbing me in the spine. There’s an odd smell to it now, but thankfully my broken leg doesn’t hurt anymore. Nothing does. Not a great sign and I see vultures circling overhead. Vultures? Really? Is this a cartoon? 

“Cheers to good health.” I took a pull of water, and nothing ever tasted so sweet. “Is this real?” I asked. 

Her head slowly shook with the sound of rustling leaves. 

“Fair enough.”

I’m writing this to remember. To one day laugh at accepting a glass of water from my dead grandmother, but I don’t think that’s in the cards for me. Please know that if you find this notebook with my corpse, I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience.

Story originally published in Beyond Words Literary Magazine March 2023