© Sarah Potter
Hadn’t been to the cabin since I was a kid. After Grandpa died, I forgot all about it. He only stayed here during the winter. I sat in the chair next to his desk. The plants had taken over everything. Still, I can almost hear his voice.
“I’m still here, boy.”
“What? Grandpa?” I looked around expecting to see him or at least his ghost.
“I’m still here. Look at the desk. Look out the window.”
“All I see are the…”
I’d forgotten how much Grandpa liked gardening, though he tended to let his plants grow a little wild.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers writing challenge. The idea is to use the image above to write a piece of flash fiction no more than 100 words long. My word count is 99.
To read more stories based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com.
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So much charm and character in that photograph! Your story really complements it.
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Thanks, Spaceman.
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Fitting reminder. A beautiful living epitaph!
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Thank you.
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It sounds as if Grandpa was a little wild himself. You captured a lot of love in your story.
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Well, could be Alicia. Thanks.
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“I’m still hear.” What a lovely thought.
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Oh crap. A typo. Good catch although I can see what you mean.
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Very sympathetically told. Grandpa was one with his plants and lives on through them, great stuff
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Thanks, Michael.
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It seems Grandpa may still be hanging around the old place. Good writing, James. 🙂 — Suzanne
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A bit of melancholy in your story but touching too.
Isadora 😎
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Thanks, Isadora.
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