Fred Aiken Writing

Daniel tried remembering. He tried remembering the name of his daughter, what he had been doing for the past seventy years, how many times he had made love, and why he was forgetting everything. 

It all looked like an unstable slow-motion sequence of images embalmed in layers of scotch being captured on a closed-circuit television camera without his knowledge. He kept on scratching at a glimmer of constancy without any luck, pondering over why he had so many chins.

Daniel concluded that everything was written in invisible ink on a post-it note.

Come on, grandpa,” he heard. “We can’t stay here forever.