Everything in that damned workshop had a story behind it. The shells he spent hours combing the beach for, leaving me partner-less for volleyball, the clock with the jumbled numbers he picked up at some scuzzy flea market normally reserved for buying back whatever you’d had stolen recently. The clock was fitting, he was never on time. Used to joke I spent my life waiting for him, then one time he just never came. Speeding driver snatched my beloved, infuriating artist away forever. And now I had to do…something with his workshop. But not today, today I remember the stories.
This story is for the Friday Fictioneers challenge (picture based story, 100 words: http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2014/10/15/17-october-2014/