The only great thing my brother, 17, had done was helping out with the shaving of my gaunt Grandfather's head, creating a large tuft of gray, all over our carpet in the living room.

Me, 15, had watched intently, as he skillfully placed the sharp blade on Grandpa's flesh, and gray coloured hairs surrendered quickly and easily.

We had never known our Grandfather, because he was never around. He had been ostracised, or maybe we were ostracised instead, and nobody told us the truth until now.

Now, Grandpa was dying, and this was the only feasible way we could share our little emotions. I watched some more, as my brother placed the now bloody blade on Grandpa's almost bald head, but he didn't frown, he only smiled his last.

DRISKLEF:
No preamble?

Ion get the tale.

Flash fiction alert!