“Lost Home” — FWG Flash Fiction for 10/11/2025
- Rob Johnson
- 4 days ago
- 2 min read
Do we, in some ways, desecrate what we try to preserve? Can we even judge?
The prompt is:
LOST HOME
Luis stood inside the cabin and sadly shook his head. The two small windows were the only concessions to the modern world. Otherwise, the cabin could have been constructed centuries ago by the indigenous people who lived in this valley for a thousand years before the coming of the foreign invaders and their accursed technology. The glass windows in their orthogonally perfect frames were a dead giveaway: this cabin was nothing more than a sham. A showpiece meant to impress bored tourists with the harshness of life in the desert.
But of course, the exhibit and the small plaque outside missed the point. To Luis Blackcrow, the last of his people and the builder of the cabin, life here wasn’t harsh; it was home. The tightly fitting logs that made up the walls of the cabin were so finely hewn that no daub and mortar was needed to seal them against the relentless wind. And the roof, raftered with logs and overlaid with mats of living lichens, was built to keep the interior dry and relatively cool.
Luis had built it using the collective knowledge of generations upon generations of his ancestors. Knowledge that was destined to die along with him.
The windows were a concession to the park rangers, who insisted there be some light source for visitors to see the historically inaccurate mixture of bedding and utensils glued in place to deter thievery. Luis had argued that the word for “dark” also meant “cool” in his native tongue, but since he was the last speaker of that language, no one seemed to care. That word and all the others would also die with him.
Coughing from the peyote and jimsonweed smoke, he plastered the windows with mud and lay down on the fake blanket to meet his ancestors.
THE END
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