(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.)
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.