Forthcoming in subTerrain

Grandpa died face-down in a pot of chili. It’s a family legend. They told that story every Thanksgiving and all the children loved it. I was four when Grandpa Jim passed away but what I remember from that day is seeing my own father sobbing into a couch cushion, not knowing why he was doing that, and being upset that we weren’t going to have chili for dinner that night. I remember little about Grandpa Jim the person except for his enormous belly and the hair on the back of his hands, which fascinated me.
      Ignominious death was always the story my family preferred to tell itself. Great Aunt Helen ate a bad pickle. Uncle Collin died at the porno store.
      “You know, your great-great-grandfather lost his marbles and married a beautiful statue in Hamburg. Crushed him to death on their wedding night.” My Aunt Linda told me this one year at Christmas. Her breath was a thick mix of cigarettes and chilled gin. I was nine and by then my understanding of death was that it was usually amusing, and also that gin was just Christmas tree water with an olive garnish.

      I grew up and left the house. And nearly as soon as I was gone I began fantasizing about all the funny ways my own parents might die.
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Read the rest in an upcoming issue of subTerrain — 1,840 words

This story was rejected 35 times before acceptance.