My head was still spinning from the night before. I didn’t remember much, but it had been a good night, that much I was sure. Jimmy always did say the best nights were the ones you couldn’t remember.
On the way to the corner store two woman whispered as I approached.
‘That was his friend,’ I overheard one of them say. Both sets of eyes looked towards me. Dismissive. Disgusted.
My phone buzzed. There were a dozen messages from Jimmy’s kid brother.
It was then I noticed the blood stain on my jeans.; it was then I started to remember – and panic.
These words form my entry into Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.
It’s an old prompt, but a new story. No re-treads on here
Bob Fogarty had run his crabber out of St. Verlaine for as long as anyone living there could remember. Everybody liked Bob. He always had a story, and when the whisky was flowing good, most likely a song or two.
Maggie gently squeezed my hand as the ceremony came an end. It had been our first September back in New York since I’d left the service.
Freshly whitewashed walls sparkled under a warm, early-morning sun. Down by the small harbour, tables and chairs, stored over winter in his uncle’s goat shed, had been wiped down and placed outside Nik’s Taverna. Even the normally unhurried and unfussed Madame Soranis had replanted her window box in readiness. Back up the hill, Mr Konaros too was almost ready for the summer season. Not many visitors to the picturesque village of Arxalas would likely remember Mr Konaros. A few though would have reason to regret crossing his path as they fumbled around in unexpectedly empty pockets on the journey home.