Fiction writer job description: sit in a room and make things up.
Here's a handwritten microfiction story inspired by the word "Old", a state we all become increasingly familiar with over time.
The digital version is included below.
I scanned the handwritten A4-page original and then followed Paragraph's minting directions for embedding collections. This is my first one, so any mistakes are mine alone. (Suggestions on how to do this better are welcome.)
Old is my Middle Name
I arrived two days late for my own birth. Rather than disappoint my mum, I hung around even though I wasn't ready. Can't imagine having to go through all that planning again.
Love won out in the end, though, and I chose to stay. I'm impressed with my stamina; eighty-three and counting.
Of course it wasn't all plain sailing; dysentery can be a bitch. Special efforts were made for me, and I know now they did what they could to keep me alive.
Kisses. There were lots of kisses. Mother played her part so well and I'm forever in her debt until life do us meet again, I guess.
Pain I struggled with. A lot. Their drugs helped dull the worst of it but they also hindered what I wanted to find out more about. Anesthesia (what an odd word) made me come and go.
Now all is good.
I feel not pain but only an endless love for all those I met.
Next time I'll make four days, for sure.
