Three Doors: Poets, Memories, and Death

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers.

Write a one hundred word story that has a beginning, middle and end. (No one will be ostracized for going a few words over the count.)

threedoorsHe didn’t know why his grandmother like this picture. But she told him her interpretation many times.

“Behind the yellow door you can hear poets and prose writers reading their books. The blue door contains old memories which never die. Some do escape through the opening. And the red door is protection from the angel of death.”

This is where nothing ever happens but winter always comes”.

Night Grandma!

Martha – Friday Fictioneers

“Martha?” Again, no reply.

He knew he had the correct shop. It was where she purchased her wedding dress many years ago. He had returned from the war with shrapnel in his leg. She said the damaged leg didn’t bother her and so they were married. ¬†She was lovely on that day. Her face radiated with a glow so intense he was afraid to touch her. And almost every anniversary they would have tea at the little place across the street.

It had been a few years since they had celebrated an anniversary. He could not remember the last time.

“Martha?”