Cleaning The Attic Brings Back Memories (FICTOID)

It was a watershed year for the family.  They sold the house, they sold the farm, they profited by a factor of four over their initial investment.

“It’s as if a millionaire bought a little girl’s lemonade stand for a thousand bucks,” mother said.  “Now let’s hurry and prepare for our move, our move out into the teal blue sea.”

The family used their profit to buy a remote island, one whose location they guarded with zealous determination.

Once gone, they planned to stay gone.

Mother led them up to the attic, cajoling them to work harder, faster.

“But it’s so sad,” whined Suzy.  “There are so many memories stored here!”

True, many memories.  Memories of times good, memories of times bad.

There was the brass whistle they used to signal when the train was coming, the pistol father used to rob stores with when courting mother, sacks of neatly folded empty money bags from a dozen banks.

Mother loosened a floorboard and sighed with nostalgia at what lay underneath.  The children leaned over her shoulder to ogle at the dozen neatly arranged human hearts, some still beating.

“Good times, good times,” she murmured.  “It will be a pity to leave all this behind.”

© Buzz Dixon