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Flash Fiction
The Dead Don’t Forgive
May 2025 | Flash Fiction Prompt #5
I was one of those unfortunate souls with a bond to the cemetery. I first went at five, my uncle’s funeral. At nine, I brought fresh flowers to my grandfather’s grave every week. It became ritual.
Others feared the cemetery at night. I didn’t. My mother said, “It’s where the vessel rests while the soul finds God.”
Every time I went to the cemetery, I would find him: Elias.
Smiling kindly at me.
Twenty years later, he’s still there, unchanged, smiling at me while I rest the flowers on my husband’s grave.
“Elias, how come you don’t age?” I ask.
“It’s my punishment,” he says, lighting a lantern. “For disrespecting the dead.”
I laugh. He doesn’t.
“I’ve kept this place balanced a long time,” he adds. “But it’s choosing now.”
“Choosing what?”
“You.” He said, “You keep bringing flowers after killing them. The dead don’t forgive liars.”
