“Dad, please. The asteroid’s passed, and we’re still alive, okay?”
The tent flap remained zippered tight as clenched teeth. I guessed the etiquette was the same as doors – you waited to be invited in.
His voice was clear and stronger than it had been for years. “Go away. I’m armed.”
“It’s me – Josh. Open up.”
You expect your parents to grow old gracefully or, at worst, to become a little forgetful. Not to blossom into survivalist delusion.
“Dad? Civilisation has collapsed. There’s only you and me. Let me in. Feed me.”
Friday fictioneers is a weekly challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt. You can find other stories here.