“Mourning”
As snow falls and evening draws closer, a battered old man struggles against the elements and questions of his own self-worth.
The fire was unimpressive. It was small, constructed of fallen twigs and a few broken branches. On one side two slightly larger branches had been arranged on top of one another to form a meager windbreak. The yellow-orange flames of the fire would lick over the top of the break and through the gaps between the branches whenever the wind momentarily abated. A small ring of partially exposed earth surrounded the fire where it did battle with the invading snowdrifts. Just outside of the ring rested a snow encrusted boot, small droplets of water sweating down the sides of its black leather.
“Hunting”
A sparse look at companionship, patience, and shared experience in nature.
“I’m going to shout, and when it stops you shoot.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get your rifle ready. It’ll be light soon.”
“Yes, sir.”
The boy chambered a round and laid his gun across the window rest of the stand and tested the sight and waited.
Tim Falkenberg 