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Weekly Contest #237
Butcher was ninety-eight and on his deathbed, surrounded by machines, a roommate, a horrible view, and a television with nothing on it that he wanted to watch, he lay there, reminiscing about his first kiss. The annual carnival was coming to town, and he had scraped and saved just enough to treat Martha, his soon-to-be wife, to a date. They shared a soda, nibbled on some popcorn and cotton candy, and strolled arm in arm. “Feeling lucky lover boy?” shouted the carny directly towards Butcher. He was, he thought, as he smiled at his b...
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