- There was something he was supposed to remember. There was something he was supposed to remember, but he was darned if he knew what it was. John tried to focus his thoughts through the soft sweater fuzz that seemed to cover his brain. What was he supposed to remember? It was on the tip of his tongue, like the bitter taste of this morning's coffee. He hadn't had a decent cup of joe since his wife died a week ago. No, that wasn't right. A month ago? Maybe a year. That woman knew how to make coffee. John looked around him at what was once his proud home. It was really starting to show its age, like him. He glanced down at his feet. Where were his boots? Who had taken his boots? He needed his musket by him all the time now, to protect him. John closed his eyes and tried to remember. The effort made him sleepy. He leaned back in his chair. He had been a hero once. He knew that much.
4 comments:
I think he's depressed because ABBA never reunited.
I loved this! Even if there had been no photo, I would be able to see the man - your use of images: coffee, boots, soft sweater fuzz, decaying house and lingo that placed him in time and space: cup of joe, musket. The repetition worked well, showing memory loss. All in all, you wrote a really good flash fiction. Well Done!
@brokenpenwriter: thanks so much! I loved your poem about the frost and your dog as well. Very vivid imagery there. Made me long for my missed pets...
Yairs... I reckon his right foot has a boot. The left is bandaged because he shot himself in the foot with his danged squirrel gun! But I like your story better!
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