Write the final few paragraphs of a story.
I suspect you lot are about to make me want to know the rest of the story, but that's my own fault, isn't it. Ah well.
Speaking of you fine peoples, it was good to see so many of you sharing your take on yesterday's prompt. I fully understand and appreciate that life gets in the way of commenting on blogs, but it still made me happy.
We stood on the peak of Miller's Hill and watched smoke rise from the wreckage of our childhood home. Sarah shed a few tears and I suppose I did as well, but you'll not hear me admit that to a damned soul. So keep that between us, all right?
I know we both should have just been happy to still be breathing. And to be glad that he was dead. But there had been so memories tied up and tucked away in the corners of that house. Happier ones than those that had been created in the last terror-filled week.
After a few minutes had passed in silence, we turned away and began to walk. Sarah limped heavily and I supported her as best I could, though I was already certain my left arm was broken in two places.
But we were alive, and that was more than what could be said about dad.