‘No Smoking‘ said the sign that hung from the workshop roof.
Made sense, what with all the wood-chip, dust and sparks. Dad though loved his Red Luckys. On the hour, every hour he’d be found outside the shop inhaling deeply, while watching the catfish ripples on the lake.
Kesanek Mill is now gone, as have most of the craftsmen who worked the softwood. Irony is it wasn’t a fire that killed any of them. Just as it ain’t a fire that is going to do for my old man. These days dad still likes to smoke and watch the ripples, as the coughs from his dust filled lungs echo across the lake.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.