The old house is no longer standing, and the oak tree I used to play on is a nuked monument of memories.
A swing, a fort. My first kiss.
A wildfire they’d said, then my frantic, long-distance flight, and my Momma and Poppa no longer there to greet me.
A futile, melted garden hose snakes across Poppa’s vast, pride-and-joy lawn. Now a sooty carpet. Momma’s walking frame lies charred in the driveway. A nice policewoman gives me the clutch of treasures found with them, and my smoke-blackened graduation photo from the other side of the world grins accusingly at me.
This story was shortlisted in the June 2023 monthly micro fiction competition.
About the author: Jeff Taylor lives in Hamilton, New Zealand and enjoys writing short fiction. Amazingly some have won prizes.