Someone had moved Joyce’s chair so it no longer sat square-on to the television. “Probably that Polish cleaner with the unpronounceable name,” she muttered. “Always nudging the furniture with her vacuum.” Joyce let go of the zimmer frame and lowered herself carefully down. “My grandfather invented the vacuum cleaner,” Joyce said loudly to no one in particular.
“Shh, I’m watching this,” said William from the chair next door.
The television showed a continuous flow of traffic at night, obscured by a lily in a pot.
“My mother was the most wonderful gardener,” Joyce said, her eyes welling.
“Shh,” said William.
This piece of writing is part of the Friday Fictioneers writing group. Each week writers from around the world attempt to write 100 words (or so) starting with a picture, this week from Lora Mitchell.
I’d love to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to read other people’s stories inspired by this picture or to join in, with the group hosted by Rochelle Wishoff-Fields.