It’s late. The streets are empty and quiet, people are at home sleeping. Now it’s time for me to get out. Freezing, I walk the streets in my old neighborhood.
The corner store had been sold last week and I can’t wait for the grand opening.
Finally, there will be a gallery in my street -showing my paintings and masterpieces of others just like me.
Why couldn’t they see the beauty in our art earlier?
Unrecognized at lifetime most of us died poor and lonely.
Now, all of a sudden we are famous, all we had to do was die.
I am not sure what’s going on with my brain these days. I look at a photograph, sit down to write about snow and end up in a ghost story. I suppose it means it’s Wednesday and I once again found myself in the middle of the Friday Fictioneers writing another 100-word tale.