Tom paused and stared at the fire. He’d told the story so many times he was no longer sure as to what was truth or embellishment. Perhaps his memory had become so corrupted that it was all just a mutant narrative. Maybe it wasn’t a memory at all, but simply a story about himself; an expression of who he wanted to be.
‘Granddad? What happened next?’
‘I don’t know, son. I’m not sure if any of it happened.’
‘But you have the scar! There on your hand.’
Tom rang a finger along the pale line.
‘The tiger leapt forward. Roar!’
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.
1 comment:
Oh, that says a lot in just a few words, Rob. Well done! And now I want to know more about Tom...
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