It’s flash fiction, in three parts. They all follow a theme, but should stand alone. As such the order in which they appear shouldn’t matter. Tell me what you think.

George stood in the front room of the wooden cabin, a room packed with more memories than furniture. It was gifted to him by his father who was as sturdy as the timbers that made up the walls. George choked back a sob as he considered the future without dad.

George knelt at his father’s bedside as his father took his last breaths. The letter clutched in his hand had no meaning as all he could do was watch and wait. His hero, his inspiration, the man who whooped his ass when he needed it, looked so frail laying there.

George gazed at the four-roomed cabin nestled in the woods as birds sang the morning into existence. The smell. The grasshopper leaping from his dew-moistened boot. The wild leaves glistening as the sun streaked through them. These were the things that built the fondest memories of his father.

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