Flash Fiction written by Stefanie Gilmour
Writing Prompt
Write a fall-themed story. It must be 440 words or less.
Story
Nothing reminds me of fall more than the smell of roasting meat in the oven. It’s one of many delights the season offers the senses. I’ve lived in the woods for many years, and the autumnal transformation is a ritual in which I partake. The days and nights become cooler, and the rains arrive. The canopy is set ablaze as leaves turn the colors gold, orange, and red.
Creatures store food for the winter, as do I. Age has gnarled my hands, so the gathering of nuts, gourds, and apples is a slow process. I collect twigs and branches to feed the belly of the stove. I drink kettles of hot tea while I work. This is a season of preparation and harvest.
As I walk among giant trees, I periodically whistle through my crooked teeth. I hear the bleating of sheep. We continue our song of call and response until I have gathered several to me. They grew fat over the summer.
I’ve been practicing the custom of preparing my little house for as long as squirrels have lined nests and bears have sought dry dens. It takes most of my concentration and energy, so I rest in my rocking chair in the evenings. I have a little white bird, which sings to me from her cage as I knit by the fire.
Finally the morning arrives when I carry the birdcage to the window. I whisper through the bars before opening the little iron door. In a flutter of snow white feathers, my little bird takes her leave.
I settle with creaking bones into my chair to wait. It is mid-day before the bird returns. She perches atop the roof and sings. First I smell them. Then I hear them trampling through the underbrush. There is scratching outside the walls and gnawing at the window panes. The breeze no longer smells like fallen leaves, but is instead heavy with their stink.
I speak, my voice raspy from lack of use.
“Nibble, nibble, gnaw,
Who is nibbling at my little house?”
It is quiet. Then sweet voices answer,
“The wind, the wind,
The heaven-born wind,”
I hear them tear away pieces of my home. I fetch the walking canes beside me and slowly rise to my feet. When I open the door, two sets of startled eyes greet me. They drop the pieces they’d been nibbling.
I nod my head and say. “Oh, you dear children, who has brought you here? Do come in, and stay with me. No harm shall happen to you.”
Nothing reminds me of fall more than the smell of roasting meat in the oven.