VISITING MABEL - a story in a hundred words

VISITING MABEL

“You’ve got a visitor, Nan,” Sandra said brightly.

“That’s nice, dear. The kettle’s boiling, I’ll make tea.”

Aileen looked around. A cushion-filled armchair, an iron warming on the antique range, a chenille cloth hiding the table-legs. Sixty years out of date, certainly, but nothing to suggest the old lady was losing the plot.

Mabel put a cup by Aileen’s elbow and offered a tin of biscuits.

“Don’t take the Bourbons – I’m saving those for Gerald.”

She touched the sepia photograph that held pride of place on the mantelpiece.

“His letter from the front last week said he’d be home soon.”

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People have different ways of coping with grief - who's to say Mabel's way is wrong? Dementia also manifests itself in many different ways, and losing forty years is possibly one of the easiest for the sufferer.

Thanks to Rochelle -  https://rochellewisoff.com/ - for hosting Friday Fictioneers every week, even when she's off on a jaunt, and to Valerie J Barrett for the atmospheric photograph.

STRIKE THREE - flash fiction

STRIKE  THREE

I only noticed strike one in retrospect – he forgot names and muddled dates, but doesn’t everyone?

The second strike was more troubling. I’d often catch him standing with a lost expression, clearly wondering where he was, but a gentle word would bring him back. Never one to listen to other opinions, he became angrier, and so illogical it was useless trying to reason with him.

But when he backed the car into the gatepost, stormed into the kitchen shouting, “Who put that blasted pillar there?” and then demanded, “What are you doing in my house?” – that was strike three.

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Those who have lived through similar scenarios will understand where this story comes from.

Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers on  https://rochellewisoff.com/  and also for bravely sharing the photograph of her accident - I hope the insurance covered it?

BRIAN - 100 word flash fiction

BRIAN

‘Where have you hidden my glasses?’ Brian demanded.

Dawn sighed. ‘They’re on the table where you put them.’

Brian snatched up glasses and newspaper, but two minutes later he threw the paper down. ‘Bloody Tories! It’s your fault for voting Labour.”

Dawn chopped onions, trying not to cry. Everything was her fault these days. ‘How about a nice cup of tea?’

Taking his grunt as assent, she placed his mug beside him, but Brian deliberately knocked it over. ‘I’m not drinking that – you’ve poisoned it!’

As Dawn ran cold water over her arm she wept for her husband, lost forever in a cloud.

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I did try to think of a 'silver lining' story but this is what came out ! Thanks to Rochelle for the photo prompt and for hosting Friday Fictioneers on her blog  https://rochellewisoff.com/  from whence you can follow the link to read how other writers interpreted the prompt.