“The fireplace long ago grew cold after its embers turned to ash.”

embers.jpgA smattering of rain calmed the songbirds cheerful chirping—making them flutter off into the deep forest for cover. A gentle wind knocked against the wooden shutters of the cabin—combining with the now steady rain to create a rhythmic song of its own.

Bamboo wind chimes join in with the growing cacophony to round out the relaxing music created by the tranquil mountain storm. But if you listened closely, you’d make out the light tapping of the cabin door rocking back and forth with the wind.

The cabin is small, yet it carries a strong feeling of home inside its four wooden walls. It only has three windows, a sturdy metal sink, a small fire place, a crooked bookshelf covered in dust, a tidy reading desk, and a bed big enough for just one person.

As quaint as the cabin is, it’s not unreasonable to imagine a person living out their last days in such a beautiful and unassuming place. There isn’t anything but forest and streams for miles in any direction.

A soft breeze carried the smell of mountain rain through the open door. A stack of papers on the desk got picked up by a strong gust. They rose high in the air with a chaotic surge, then floated softly to the ground like falling snowflakes—landing in a pool of sticky red liquid on the wooden floorboards.

The bone white pages soaked in the intense crimson—becoming soft and malleable in the process. A small stream of the liquid deviated from its source and traveled to the open door. Slowly it inched its way under the crack and onto the porch where it would mix with the clear rain.

The liquid turned a bright pink as it began to wash away with the rain water. All remained silent inside the cabin. The now red papers stay stuck to the floor—cemented by the copious amounts of the ever thickening liquid.

The fireplace long ago grew cold after its embers turned to ash. And the only guest to the silent cabin was that of a man. A man who laid upon the hard floor with blood pooling underneath him from a bullet hole in his head.

He was now as peaceful as the forest surrounding him. His life taken—only to become part of a unified world of natural song. And as the rain tenderly thumped upon the roof, the man was to be forever a part of the mountain song.

mountain rain.jpg

If you liked this and want to support our work, please share it. Then check out these other great flash fiction pieces.

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