Cuppa / Short Short Fiction.

Photo , The key , Mexico 2008

My Writing Tutor told me 

never write about the mundane, cups of tea,

or going to the bathroom or the things in life that really 

do not have too much meaning, I took that as a challenge 

Here is Cuppa

Cuppa

     ‘Come down for a cuppa', she said, as if nothing else mattered. Had she forgotten all that had gone before? Of course she had, she was old. It was easier for her to forget than to remember what it was she said.

        That day she called me by my brother's name, sitting me down scone and cream, thinking I was he, reciting all the crimes, I as me, had committed, some so bizarre that it was hard to believe she believed they were true. It was impossible to stop myself from shaking. My hand faltered as my mind tried to leave the room.

         I watched as crumbs dropped from the side of my now tilted saucer, the sane times disappearing into nothing, Christmas cheer, and birthday celebrations from a time when her mind was clearer, no reminder, now there was only dry scone accumulating on a un-kept carpet. All that had gone before lost, so many happy memories now dark stains in the bottom of my now empty cup. In a mind that believed in good and evil, here I was, her grandson, in her newly formed memories more evil than was possible.

  I scuffed my shoes against her worn down chair leg, stared away from her at the threadbare cushion. It was well past its time, so to was her mind, one stray thread too many leading nowhere and too far gone to be repaired.                                                                          When she left the room for more jam, I left by way of the side door.  A month later the phone call,‘Come down for a cuppa', she said.‘Sorry, Grandma I am too busy'.

Kirk Lafferty 2016