Parade

It was scandalous. Grandpa was ninety-six years old, blind in one eye, half-deaf, and so fat it was debatable whether he could get his rotund self behind the wheel. But he had insisted until the family gave up.

And who knew? He had restored the jalopy in his youth and knew it the way a mother knew her own child. Maybe instinct would see him through.

Then a voice from the back seat.

“How much farther? Hand me another beer. I’m parched!”

Sharon sighed. Grandpa and his car were going to be the most memorable entry in this year’s parade.

This was written with words from Three Word Wednesday and photo prompt from Friday Fictioneers. Photo by Al Forbes.

Protege

She hurried down the tunnel-like hallway, oblivious to the clean lines of its modern design. A particular memory nagged.

“Your work has a certain neophyte appeal,” he had told her, “But it’s nothing special.”

He had wanted her to keep studying with him, but she knew better. He just wanted her money and her body. The old misogynist didn’t believe a woman could be a serious artist.

Well, she showed him. A few more steps and she would be in the gallery surrounded by her paintings and the fans who had come from all over the city to meet her.

This was written with words from Three Word Wednesday and photo prompt from Friday Fictioneers. Photo by Dale Rogerson.