[I started this story during last week’s Write Invite competition, using the trigger ‘The Present’. It didn’t get short-listed, and the original ending (which I have deleted) was not strong enough. So I’ve posted the opening few paragraphs and I’m going to develop the story over the next few weeks. I currently have no idea where it will go – but that’s the joy of writing fiction.]
“Trouble with you, Mum, you’re too fond of living in the past!.” Mark stood with his hands on his hips, looking in at the spare room. “We’re going to have to throw all this junk out. There won’t be room for it when you move in with us.” “In my day, we didn’t just throw stuff out,” I said, “we kept it for a rainy day; we always found a use for things in the end. Make do and mend, we called it.” “Yeah, yeah, I know. There was a war on; you didn’t have money to waste… but like I said, you’re living in the past.” He dodged as I threw a cushion at him and then gave one last look at the room before following me into the kitchen for a cup of tea. “We’ll tackle that next weekend, if you like.”
I knew he was right, of course. There wasn’t going to be room in the little annex for the contents of a fifty-year marriage. And maybe keeping all the children’s old clothes, as well as our own, was a bit excessive. But I wanted to go through it on my own first, before our past – mine and Ted’s – was given away to the charity shop or a jumble sale. [to be continued]
Elizabeth Ducie was a successful international manufacturing consultant, when she decided to give it all up and start telling lies for a living instead.
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