This post is written for Friday Fictioneers. The challenge is to write a complete story with a beginning, middle and end using the picture prompt below.
His prognosis had been a devastating blow. The concussions Ben had received during the bombing had left him without any memory. The doctors had tried just about every treatment to recover even a tiny portion of his life before the war. So far nothing had worked.
His brother had an idea. He did a goggle search and found it. Working with the museum curator they wheeled the piece of art to his bedside.
Ben’s eyes suddenly went wide. “That’s my bike!” Ben yelled.
The counter space reflects her busy life even as we emerge from this devastating pandemic. The two purses are used for specific purposes which I have never understood. I cringe when she ask me to bring her purse. I invariably choose the wrong one.
The two medical cards with our medications are placed where emergency personnel can find them. I have asked myself a few times if the paramedics will even take the time to look, much less read, them.
There’s the business card from the landscape company she is trying to reach because there are brown patches in the yard. I hate to tell her that the brown spots were probably the result of her using way too much Roundup. But I stay quiet.
The colorful luggage tags are for our upcoming trip to Alaska. No international travel for us this year. She has purchased two new sets of luggage to go along with the six suitcases in the garage. I only need one.
There is a picture of me with my beret sitting in the airport in Dublin. It’s her favorite photo of me. I don’t argue with her.
He knew the restaurant closed at midnight. It said so on the sign on the front door. He knew that for a fact because he had spent the last two nights across the street observing that even if there were no customers the place closed promptly at midnight.
Tonight would be a busy night. There should be plenty of cash on hand. He knew they did not have a safe because he used to work there. Once he entered the place he knew he would not have much time to accomplish his mission.
He waited until tonight because he knew Karl would be closing the place. Karl his previous manager. Karl who had fired him. Karl the prick. Karl needed to die. It was payback time. Karl would not make the next opening of the store. He hoped there would be no collateral damage.
Look out Karl he said to himself as he waited patiently in the parking lot as the sun went down. It would be worth the wait. Thoughts of how Karl would die drifted through his mind as he fell as he into a deep sleep.
The telephone call came at 6:04 p.m. I remember the exact time because the national news was beginning and the ringing of the telephone irritated me.
It was Sara. “Jeff passed away last night,” she cried.
I was speechless. My mind going from full speed ahead to a full stop in a nanosecond.
Jeff was diagnosed with frontal lobe dementia four years ago. I was a witness to this disease’s rapid progress through his mind and body.
We were both terrible golfers. But Jeff started to have difficulty keeping his score. As the disease progressed we would tell him what he scored. He would say, “That sounds about right.” At one point he took a swing at an imaginary ball. He went through all the motions: put the ball on the tee, took a practice swing, then took a full swing with a beautiful follow through. But he forgot to take the ball out of his pocket. “Mike, you forgot the ball!” Mike went through the same procedure again without the ball.
As this terrible disease progressed he would lose the ability to recognize family and friends, forget how to use eating utensils. Four years from diagnosis to death. Jeff was 62 year old.
His carving could wait. Irving was late for service. Entering the parking lot he heard gunshots.
Rushing into the building he saw David and Cecil face down inside the entrance. The brothers were always first to meet worshipers when they arrived. Twenty feet in front of the brothers was Rosie. “Rosie, Rosie, 97 years young sure to make 101” was the familiar chant that we sang to her. This can’t be happening. To his right were Bernice and Sylvan. They were married in this same synagogue 60 years ago.
According to the dashboard clock on his car it was 7:09 p.m. when he entered the motel parking lot. He had driven over 400 miles today and he was weary. Even the sunset looked dull to his tired eyes.
Their marriage had been deteriorating for the last year so it didn’t surprise him when she ordered him to leave their home early this morning.
He took out his cell phone. No new calls or messages. He realized that he did not know if that was bad or good. He knew one thing. She had expressed her anger by flinging his phone across the room where it hit with a dull thunk against the kitchen cabinet.
The phone had caused his troubles. He had left it home when he went for his morning walk. Upon returning his wife informed him he had a message, which she had overheard, from Pauline, describing in detail their last time in bed.