By Marc Watson
It was my favorite place in the world. The old well was now ringed by overgrown flowers and weeds. A stream weaved between trees, while a willow beyond the clearing whispered with the breeze. A cicada rhythmically chirped, implying the day would be hot, but for now it was comfortable.
A clearing held the abandoned pool, cracked and empty, surrounded by rotting boardwalk and chipped cement. My grandfather walked slowly beside me; his cigar smoke ever-present. Beside the pool were chairs where he used to quietly sit. In all the decades he tended this place, I never once saw him swim.
Good story, but seemed more like the beginning of what could be a GREAT story! You might want to expand on this one, Marc.