Death Comes Fast

This post is submitted to Sunday Photo Fiction.

spf-july-8-2018-1-of-1

Photo Credit: Susan Spaulding

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.

To read other stories click here.

Philosophical Fridays

Danny James Photography

IMG_0584 Photo Credit — Danny James

                        Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,
                        The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on:
                         The long gorge choked with scree and boulders,
                         The wide creek, the mist-blurred grass.
                         The moss is slippery, though there’s been no rain.
                         The pine sings, but there’s no wind.
                         Who can leap the world’s ties
                         And sit with me among the white clouds.

Han-Shan

View original post

The Caravan

This post submitted to Friday Fictioneers.

under-bridge

“The illegals live there, officer.” The homeless man motioned ahead.

Here on the southwest edge of the city it was quite dirty and the area under the bridge oozed with feces and muddy water mixed with trash. The people were huddled together in a sprawling mass that covered the entire area shaded by the overhead bridge.

“Stinks like hell,” the border agent said.

“Just the beginning  from what I hear. They say many more of their kind are on there way. Fleeing from gang violence and poverty. Can’t say that I blame them. Welcome to my world Amigos.”