The scribblings of a widower in his sixties who has discovered the therapy of the written word. Join me on my journey from grief to satisfaction and how I eventually got there.
About me
I am a sixty-five-year-old widower, (In 2023). I discovered writing to cope with the grief of losing my wife of thirty-five years to cancer. I began by writing my first short story, The Slow Cooker (Link to the story here).
This was followed by a story about each of the five stages of grief. Here I am, over one hundred and fifty stories later and four novels in progress.
Follow me on my journey, whether you’re a fellow sufferer or just keen on a story.
READ MY NOVELLA; THE PAINTING, FREE!
Read how a young Scotsman falls in love with a woman in his dreams, to discover that she exists when he meets an old Egyptian painter. Read about how their meeting saves the world from nuclear war.
Today’s Story
Wine:
He entered the back room in time to see the titles rolling down the screen accompanied by the familiar signature tune. In one hand he clasped a brightly coloured can; in the other a branded beer glass
“Beer again?” Shd quizzed, raising her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”
“With me? Is it the beer?” He retorted, placing the glass on the coaster next to his chair.
“Yes, it’s the beer. You never used to drink this much. It’ll affect your health you know, at your age,” she countered, crossing her legs and pulling her skirt over her knees.
“This much? It’s my first today. It’s eight-thirty on a Thursday night.” He tugged at the ring-pull with the finger of his free hand. The can cracked open and the orifice gurgled to life. He held the glass to the can and poured.
“So you’re going to drink it then?” She demanded indignantly.
“Nah, I’ll just watch it go flat. It can’t be any worse than watching EastEnders,” came the response. He skillfully adjusted both can and glass until the contents was successfully transferred. “Can I get you something? Wine? Gin and tonic?” He crushed the empty can and raised the glass to his mouth. “Cheers.”
“You know I only drink spirits at Christmas. What wine is there?” She picked up the controls and switched channels. The morbid tones of Coronation Street replaced those of Albert Square.
“Of course, silly me. Let me see; we have Chardonnay, Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Grigio,” he said in an affected tone like a French sommelier. Another two gulps of Punk IPA followed the first.
“Oh, whatever’s open, just a small glass. I value my liver,” she taunted, looking him up and down.
“There isn’t a bottle open so you have a choice,” came the reply as he battled brain-freeze.
“In that case, I won’t bother,” she replied, turning up the volume on the TV.
“Exactly. Leave it to the kids. Like everything else. Why open anything? I’m off into the loft. See you tomorrow.” He turned and headed for the door.
He didn’t wait for a response, and none was forthcoming. As the dull ache subsided in his forehead, it was replaced by another sensation. He welcomed back the brain-freeze with another two chugs as he climbed the stairs.
“Ah, that’s better,” he gasped as the sharp ice pick returned, replacing the real pain.
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Read my other stories from past days.