Another story using the 5 words in red at the end.


The Tsunami

Truman arranges the heavy afghan on his lap.

He still misses his overstuffed chair;

it was finally worn-in just the way he wanted.

Why couldn't I keep it?

he grouses in his mind as he watches his

mother doing needlework by the dying fire.

Grumble, grumble.

The grandmother clock ticks monotonously

above the wainscoting and chair rail

on the dark wood-paneled wall.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

It has been two years since the tsunami hit

changing so much in his life, in everyone's life,

like a boxer beating his punching bag into submission.

Pound! Pound! Pound!

without taking a breath.

Relentlessly pummeling an unseen opponent.

Aristocrat. Commoner. Rich. Poor.

It all meant nothing to the

ferociously punishing storm.

Pound! Pound! Pound!

This scene replays in his mind every day:

The mother. The son. The self-pity.

The memories.

Ah, yes, the memories!

Where would he be without

the precious memories to fill the

otherwise unchanging hours?

Where?

Right here.

In his chair.

The fire is nearly out now,

as his mother gathers up her yarn.

Do you want anything, love?

Do I WANT anything??

Of COURSE I want something!

The same thing I've wanted for the past 2 years!

That is what he says in his head.

In reality, he beams a fake smile

and shakes his head.

No, Mother.

Nothing that YOU can give me.

Nothing that ANY-body can give me.

Then off we go! she chirps.

So blissfully, lovingly ignorant.

As they pass the fireplace,

Truman looks at the pictures

splayed across the stone mantel.

Memories.

There are many family photos of

smiling faces, happy times;

life in a different space.

But his eyes see only one picture.

The one he refused to let his mother remove.

The one of #18. Quarterback.

As his mother navigates the wheelchair

past the life he once had,

Truman completes another lifeless day.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

5 words:   quarterback     needlework     aristocrat    tsunami     Truman