For today's article, I thought I would switch it up and share my first attempt at flash fiction! I hope you all enjoy!
Weathered Hands
In the middle of the woods there sat an old man, ripened with age and knowledge. There was a chill in the air but as he took a seat beneath a tree filled with memories, he found the ground to be warm. He stared at his familiar hands, each line and scar representing a different part of his journey.
He thought back on his life, remembering old whispers of companionship and memories of family. He was always a cold man, physically of course. His body sent what warmth he had to his heart, providing him with the compassion he needed to survive in this cold set world. He lived by simplicity, needing nothing more in his life than sustenance and loved ones.
And now he had neither.
Sitting under this oak tree, just as raw and weathered as he was, everything reminded him of her. He remembered how she said his name, Henry, softly, like it was something precious. Her eyes the color of the rushing creek he sat by, bright blue and always bustling with energy.
Fortunately, she was always warm, providing him with the heat he always craved. But now she was gone. And he was cold once again.
As he sat there, next to a crumbled gravestone, he decided it was time. With no water or food for miles, he laid there. For the first time in years, he felt warm.
