(Author’s Note: My job is a tough one. It doesn’t leave me with much time to actually spend writing more things. I come home from work, and I am really tired. We’ll see what happens. In the meantime, here’s today’s fictioneers.)
© Liz Young
Grandpa was never the same after we discovered the faded tombstone out back.
“I loved her. Love was the only crime I was guilty of. They can’t take that!”
We didn’t know what happened, but the words “throat cancer” and “1965” were constantly on his breath.
For weeks, he wouldn’t do anything except sit on the bench near the makeshift grave he made all those years ago.
One morning, we walked outside to see him hugging the gravestone.
“Grandpa, breakfast is ready!”
We walked over to shake him. He was cold, and he was gone.
Guilty.
Music and Fiction 
Guilty … maybe.
Oh, such a tragic tale with hints of a ‘mercy killing’ within. Loved it!
Suspicions that all was not right, but what is the true?
Awww…..geez. Poor old guy. Got me by the throat. Well done.
Poor Grandpa! It sounds like he never did come to peace about the choice he/ they had made.
Sweet. That generation knew how to love!💐
You had me right from the beginning. Poor old man, living so long after his love had gone ahead of him.
Oh dear! Poor grandpa. I see a tale within a tale. Well done.
Poor grandpa! Such a sad tale.
The back story to this lingers – well done.