By Maureen Mooney
Closeted in the chilly first floor flat above the Charity shop, Sylvie wrapped the crocheted blanket tightly around her. Nestled in her trembling hands, the letter she had received that morning quivered in her lap. Cool Rivers had died. Cool Rivers, minstrel, laughing poet, love of her life.
After the Summer of ’69 she had chosen the security of the known, left him to tread the hippie trail to the Spanish mountains alone.
She should have gone too.
From the TV screen Barnaby was summoning Jones, as a single tear slid down onto the envelope smudging her name into a flower.
Love this. Beautifully written.
This is such a tender and Braddock story Maureen. I look forward to reading many more!
Beautiful…. Not Braddock. Predictive text!
Thanks Rebecca.:-) lol
Extremely sensory! Very well written. Great story Maureen.
Very nice!!!
Beautiful story. Love how you did that in only 101 words.
Excellent, just excellent. I’ve often sat with a 93-year old while she watches Barnaby Jones – oh, the stories we all have, some told, some not.