Grandpa Science

 

He’d tell us day in and day out, Canadians raise sheep, instead of chicken, because the bleating species don’t need vaccination.

“It’s the crisp Canadian air,” he’d explain to us, the uninitiated. “It has less nitrogen, more UV.”

Once I tried to challenge him. “So it’s not the ten months cold and snow? Soil conditions? Did you consider eating preferences? Also, how about the low population density?”

He waved. “Those are minor factors. Mostly cancel each other.”

Four months into the pandemic, no vaccine yet, the coronavirus slayed him. Had he moved to the Yukon in the nick of time, I imagine, he’d still be alive now.

🐑 🐑 🐑 🐑

 

First published in Friday Flash Fiction on July 11, 2025.

 

 

 

Outwith the Garden

Despite the horrific injuries he’d received during the Siege of Madrid, Frank, our little Iowa town’s story teller, lived to be ninety-senile.

He often used the word “outwith,” instead of “outside,” that he claimed to have picked up from Scottish and Yorkshire volunteers. Frank also referred to mailmen, traffic cops and other uniformed government workers as “fart-box” and “gadgie.” (For females, his Scotticist vocabulary was substantially wider.)

Now that the Garden is rapidly shrinking around us, and there’s no other place left to sustain life, we find ourselves saying “outwith” more and more often - anticipating where we’re going to find ourselves pretty soon.

 

First published in 50 Word Stories on July 8, 2025.