“Why’d you give me this name, anyway?” asked Last Snow.
“Your mother and I called you that because we brought you home in a snowstorm,” her father said. “We figured it was the last one we’d ever see, and we were right.”
He smiled at her. She smiled back.
“I heard there’s some rice left in Boston. I’ll take the gun and head over. You stay here, out of sight.” He shaded his eyes and looked through the greenery at the empty street.
“It’s already New Year’s,” he said. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
The world turns, the Fourier transform’s still on my wavelength, and I’ve got just enough sleep to walk around but not enough to boot up whatever scraps of intelligence I had previously. Anyway…Every Friday, writers from all around the world write 100 word (or thereabouts) flash fiction based on a photo posted that Wednesday on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.
I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer. The weekly photo that inspired this story is below: