Which Way Is Home?

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….


 Copyright –  David Stewart

I was born on September 20th, eighty-seven years ago. Mama would often say I was the last gift of summer. I never quite understood what she meant, until I got older and watched my summers grow shorter every year.

These days, the winter winds rattle my bones, reminding me to breathe. I watch the weather vane spin, never quite stopping, pointing in a dozen different directions.

It’s like watching my life. Always spinning, never settling down, aimless wanderer by choice.

And finally, I remembered to ask: Which way is home? 

But there is no one here to answer.

43 thoughts on “Which Way Is Home?

  1. This is such an emotional story, but I can’t really put my finger on why; the fact that time passes without us realizing? Life is short? The story seems to be saying more than that though.
    Very thought-provoking piece. Well told.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. The weather vane represents the narrator’s life. It tells me, when we become old enough to know what questions to ask, it is often too late. Those who we need to hear the answers from have already passed away. This is excellent!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. This is fantastic, Loré! The sense of time passing and age are tied together perfectly, and the mood of the piece resonates. It’s not just the telling, but the feel of the passing of time that I get in this story… loved it.

    I think you’re missing the word “a” just before “dozen different directions.”

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Dear Lore,

    “….reminding me to breathe.” One of the best this week, or ever, here on the pages of Friday Fictioneers. I loved that line in particular and I love the story in its entirety. Very nicely rendered. (Thanks for the music, too. One of my favorite movies.)



    Liked by 1 person

  5. Ah! The passage of time how it leaves us behind. It reminded me of those line by Tennyson
    “Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
    And after many a summer dies the swan.”

    Liked by 1 person

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