Start Fiction:
As he stumbled over a snow drift, Tom mumbled to himself about his displeasure towards winter. With each passing year, his bones ached worse, his tolerance for the cold lessened, and his lonliness intensified. The last seven winters were the worst of his seventy-three winters, since he buried Peggy.
It had been hard for him to deal with life without Peggy. He wondered why he lived on; his poor health, his drinking, smoking. When would his number be up? When would his worn out body finally wear out? When would the Angel of Death finally come calling?
Most of his friends and family had passed. Tom had grown up an only child. He and Peggy had no surviving children, no grandchildren; no genetic line was going to carry forward. With only a handful of his world left, he fretted to be the last.
End Fiction.
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