Several months ago, we were given 5 minutes to write a brief story about a picture. Here’s what I wrote:
The field on the left was filled with flowers. Sunflowers were my wife’s favorite. When she saw those, there was no stopping her, so we left our broken-down car behind. She almost lost a sneaker as she climbed through the rails of a wooden fence. I hurried to catch up to her.
Though we were both in our 60s, she acted as I remembered from our 20s. She giggled as she tripped and almost fell. Brambles snagged her jeans, but she just brushed these away.
“Donna, we need to return to the road. The man should be here with a tow.”
“Oh Don! Look at the golden moon. Same as the first time you kissed me!”
I rubbed my bald patch. She needs her meds. She called me Don, not Dan. How do I get her to go back to our car?