Grandpa was a funny old man. He’d sit on a swing in the yard, eating beans from a can. Always cold, dribbling down his chin. I didn’t understand then, but I do now. He called them Bullwinkles. I never figured out why. He’d scream from his swing, that I mustn’t forget to collect them. His eyes glazed over, his mouth slightly foaming. My mother would yell at me, scream until I moved away from the window. She never let me talk to him. But now I know. It’s because she’s the one that drove him crazy. She took his Bullwinkles.
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Title by: Ami
Story by: Quintin
