|Image Rochelle Wisoff-Fields|
A Policeman Calls
Smuts from the untrimmed lamps drifted upwards like dirty snowflakes, dancing briefly on the yellowed ceiling before falling onto the warped Formica work surface. None of the pots matched, the cups were chipped and faded, except a few old but pristine bone china relics in the glass cupboard - for visitors. The musty clutter in the kitchen had a stale sad smell, like the day before yesterday’s memories. Dated photos, in old but highly polished frames proudly displaying the laughing family, took pride of place beside the collapsed, sagging armchair. The old lady’s body lay next to it.
This story was written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields' Friday Fictioneers Challenge