I don’t remember his name, but I remember his house. Or, I thought I did. That was until Grace answered the door.

The old woman who’d lived there for decades.

So I tried next door, and a few doors down, even across the street.

But here’s the thing. I’m sure that’s his house. Despite being drunk that night, I remembered it distinctively, especially its Victorian architecture, much different from the white picket fence homes surrounding it, and I wondered if he was a writer. Guy like that, living in a house like that. It only made sense.

Now nothing makes sense.

© 2018 Nortina Simmons

A to Z Challenge theme: A Drabble for a Tag

This year, I’m giving you 26 drabbles (100-word stories) using some of my favorite unused or underused tags.

Today’s tag is “Grace.”

Read previous: “F” is for “Friday the 13th.”

Read next: “H” is for “Hidden Message.”


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