RobertM
New Member
When I wrote this one, the length was restricted to 250 words or less...
'Memoir'
Mrs. Sanders was crying again.
It had been another difficult afternoon for her at the hospital, and now she was sitting in the kitchen sobbing quietly. Outside it was bright summer and warm. A few songbirds chirped from the apple tree and picked at the feeder.
Six year old Stacie wandered into the kitchen. “Mommy?”
Mrs. Sanders bravely tried to smile. “Yes, honey?”
“Can I go play in the attic?”
“Sure, sweetheart.” It was perfectly safe in the attic and she knew Stacie loved exploring the books and chests. “Have fun.”
After little Stacie bounced happily up the attic stairs, her mother took a notebook and began writing something in it.
Up in the attic, Stacie headed for her favorite box, the one with all the pictures. She struggled with a big photo album, wrestling it to the floor. She flipped the pages. Most of the pictures showed Stacie alone or with her parents.
The little girl stopped on one particular photograph. She smiled and touched her head, remembering. “That’s when I had hair!” she said to no one in particular.
Down in the kitchen, Mrs. Sanders had written the same phrase over and over until the page was filled:
IT’S NOT FAIR.
The End
'Memoir'
Mrs. Sanders was crying again.
It had been another difficult afternoon for her at the hospital, and now she was sitting in the kitchen sobbing quietly. Outside it was bright summer and warm. A few songbirds chirped from the apple tree and picked at the feeder.
Six year old Stacie wandered into the kitchen. “Mommy?”
Mrs. Sanders bravely tried to smile. “Yes, honey?”
“Can I go play in the attic?”
“Sure, sweetheart.” It was perfectly safe in the attic and she knew Stacie loved exploring the books and chests. “Have fun.”
After little Stacie bounced happily up the attic stairs, her mother took a notebook and began writing something in it.
Up in the attic, Stacie headed for her favorite box, the one with all the pictures. She struggled with a big photo album, wrestling it to the floor. She flipped the pages. Most of the pictures showed Stacie alone or with her parents.
The little girl stopped on one particular photograph. She smiled and touched her head, remembering. “That’s when I had hair!” she said to no one in particular.
Down in the kitchen, Mrs. Sanders had written the same phrase over and over until the page was filled:
IT’S NOT FAIR.
The End