This is one of the earliest flash fiction pieces I penned during a rebirth into the medium. It needed to be dug out, dusted off, for you fine folks.
Icicles hang like glass from frozen gutters.
Snow blankets things like the mower, the good summer Adirondacks. Frozen in time. A time ago.
This is my view, from the kitchen window.
Where I am frozen, too.
Boot prints still echo in the snow, up the path to the mailbox. Where the envelope came.
Not so long ago? I can’t remember now.
I just know that this view is getting monotonous. Cold.
And the handgun’s nickel-metal finish is now warm against my hip.