250 word flash fiction short from Jun 3, 2012
Another of my entries in the flash fiction short story contest on Indies Unlimited Blog
George on the Lake
I had a very peculiar feeling I would be witnessing something on the lake this morning. Hunkered down behind a large boulder on the western shore with my coffee thermos, I watched with my trusty high powered binoculars. Once or twice I thought I heard a faint but distinct sound – George’s vigorous Bombardier outboard motor. I raised the binoculars and barely distinguished the silhouette of George and his skiff against the mountain shore; the sun just coming up and the moisture rising made it difficult. As I sat there observing George, I recollected him as a very likeable, older fellow. He had a wonderful, friendly wife, Peggy, who made the best homemade yeast biscuits. I remembered from the many times I’d been to their cabin, George was always tinkering in his small wood shop making furniture, and Peggy was always baking something that smelled out of this world. When Peggy suddenly passed away, George was devastated. I recalled seeing a small wooden box George had made for a neighbor whose son had passed away, and the box was for the son’s ashes. I had asked George if Peggy wanted to be buried or cremated; if cremated, would he make a box for her? Movement through the lens made me scrutinize what I saw – George maneuvered a medium-sized, oblong-shaped package to the edge of the craft and after a brief pause with bowed head, he pushed it into the water and I watched it sink. I believe I had my answer.
George on the Lake
I had a very peculiar feeling I would be witnessing something on the lake this morning. Hunkered down behind a large boulder on the western shore with my coffee thermos, I watched with my trusty high powered binoculars. Once or twice I thought I heard a faint but distinct sound – George’s vigorous Bombardier outboard motor. I raised the binoculars and barely distinguished the silhouette of George and his skiff against the mountain shore; the sun just coming up and the moisture rising made it difficult. As I sat there observing George, I recollected him as a very likeable, older fellow. He had a wonderful, friendly wife, Peggy, who made the best homemade yeast biscuits. I remembered from the many times I’d been to their cabin, George was always tinkering in his small wood shop making furniture, and Peggy was always baking something that smelled out of this world. When Peggy suddenly passed away, George was devastated. I recalled seeing a small wooden box George had made for a neighbor whose son had passed away, and the box was for the son’s ashes. I had asked George if Peggy wanted to be buried or cremated; if cremated, would he make a box for her? Movement through the lens made me scrutinize what I saw – George maneuvered a medium-sized, oblong-shaped package to the edge of the craft and after a brief pause with bowed head, he pushed it into the water and I watched it sink. I believe I had my answer.
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