Welcome to Write the Story! Each month Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms. Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support!
By Bluebell Rizzi
My granddad used to call for me and my sister before we went to sleep. He’d sit there, in his old green armchair, drinking his blueberry muffin tea. We’d sit on the carpet in our pyjamas. And he would tell us stories.
Magical stories, of fairies in the garden, wizards in the forests, and the angels that guarded the village.
Our eyes would go wide, and he’d chuckle into his beard and send us to bed.
We believed him, me and my sister. She doesn’t anymore, though. She’s three years younger than me. She came to see me the other night. We sat out on the deck, and I asked her if she thought granddad might have been telling the truth. She just laughed and lit up a cigarette.
She’s different, since mum and dad died. More reckless, sarcasm dripping from every word. It’s been five years, but the girl that she was before is gone, perhaps forever.
We lost granddad five months ago. I don’t think he ever got over our parents’ death, and he got sick.
Towards the end, I’d sit by his bed in the old-people’s home. When he wasn’t sleeping, he held my hands and told me a story from when my father was young.
My grandmother, his wife, passed away in her early thirties, when my father was still a toddler.
When she was a child, she found a pail on her doorstep one morning, five months after her mother died. It was small, pink with yellow dots. She loved it, played with it every day, and kept it as she grew up. She lost it, though, when she was in her twenties. She told my granddad about it many a time.
Five months after she died, my dad found a pink pail with yellow dots on the doorstep. He kept it until he was in his twenties, when he lost it.
My granddad kept telling me this, over and over. I used to cry, because I knew I was losing him.
Yesterday evening, I went out on my deck, and tripped over something. Cursing, I inspected my scraped leg. Getting up to look for a plaster, I stopped.
In front of the door lay a pink pail with yellow dots.
Bluebell Rizzi, is a writer, mainly a poet that dabbles in fiction. Please visit her blog , bluebellforawhile.wordpress.com