‘Can’t beat that smell, can you, Grandad?’
‘No lad, you can’t.’
‘Better than what we’ve got now, ain’t they?’
I nod out of politeness. It’s nice of him to bring me here. A pair of socks would have been fine.
‘Do you want to go to the other side?’
‘Give me a minute here.’
‘Okay, Grandad. Just say if you need to sit down.’
I like that he calls me Grandad. Makes me feel young. Too much of a mouthful to say great.
‘Must bring back some memories, all this old stuff.’
Another nod. He doesn’t know. Can’t see what I see. No-one can. I’m the last one.
‘Could get a brew and a bun after this.’
‘Can we sit on the platform?’
‘If that’s what you’d like, it’s your day.’
‘Yeah … I’d like that.’
This fictional short story was written for a 50 Day Project organised by the artist Amanda Billing. I get 45 minutes to an hour (not the project’s rules, it’s just about the time I have right now) to write a story, sometime between 4.30am and 5.30am. After that, the day is no longer mine.
N.B. The sketch image for this short story was created using AI (at best, I can draw a half-decent stick man). The words are all mine.
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