As I left the recycling center and headed to my car to move it for alternate side, the drizzle had stopped and I noted a large patch of blue in the distance. I decided to set up a limited book shop, keeping my and January Valentine’s books in the car. It was the right move, as the rain held off until one-thirty. Only one problem -- no buyers. At least it kept me out of the house for a while.
Here’s the first few paragraphs of the story, What Might Have Been, I’ve been writing. All it needs is a bit of tweaking, which I will do over the next several days.
He opened his eyes, which took a moment to focus. A pretty, dark-haired girl of ten stood before him. Although he’d never seen her before, she looked familiar.
“Hi, Gran’pa,” she said sweetly.
Gran’pa? he thought, gazing about the unfamiliar surroundings, a den in what seemed a suburban home.
“Gran’ma told me to wake you up,” said the girl, unsure of herself.
He groaned as he pushed off the comfortable easy chair. He noted the pictures on the wall, trophies on the shelves. He was about to follow the little girl out of the room when something caught his eye. He stepped toward a photograph of a high school football team and stared, squinting. The girl took a pair of glasses from a nearby desk and handed them to him. The caption on the photo read: County Champs 1995, 10-0. And there he was, back row left: Head Coach John Marino. How could that be? He’d left coaching 35 years ago, in 1978. He moved to a shot of a wedding party, where he was in a tuxedo, age 25 or so, beside a beautiful bride.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
“What’s the matter, Gran’pa?”
He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to alarm the little angel, so he said nothing. She took his hand and led him through a hall, across a gleaming wooden floor to a modern kitchen that looked out onto a manicured back yard.
“Hey, sleepy head,” said a smiling, white-haired woman of 60, an older version of the bride. “Amy couldn’t wait another minute. Besides, nap too long and you won’t sleep tonight.”
He stared, baffled. Was this what Alzheimer’s looked like from the inside? Would he know he was afflicted?
The woman chuckled. “Boy, that must’ve been a deep sleep.”
Was this a dream? It seemed so real. Was he hallucinating after a head injury?
Vic's 4th Novel: http://tinyurl.com/bszwlxh
Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic's Website: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic's Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic's Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3
Vic’s Short Story on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/k95k3nx
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