The Mourning Haze of Summer’s Sun

What is this?

This is a short story, "The Mourning Haze of Summer’s Sun," written by (and all rights belonging to) an online friend of mine who goes by the user handle FungshwayGorilla, while we were both community members of a Twitch streamer named Nomakk in late 2026.

The provenance of this story, from the perspective of how it got to me, is that he mentioned just having finished writing it in Nomakk's Twitch chat on the evening of Oct 05 2026, and I offered to host a copy of it on my website if he was up for it, as I like to record and chronicle creative works from friends as a way to try to preserve different people's voices into the future. We connected over Discord, where he shared his short story with me, and I published it here during my usual blog writing session on the following weekend. The story was then updated after instructor feedback on Oct 25 2026.

The Mourning Haze of Summer’s Sun

Michael sat on the roof of his mother’s trailer, his feet bouncing against the aluminum siding. The muffled thump created a broken rhythm emphasized by the late morning silence.

No one is around to care anyways, thought Michael, as he looked up at the neighborhood’s empty driveways. Only the birds or his little brother, both chirping away, offered any real distraction.

The sun arched over the trailer lot, just above the tree line. Michael felt the heat press into him, the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back. This summer had been so hot, and it always left his home feeling musty. He hated the smell. Michael glanced back down to his toy resting in his hands; his Gameboy chipped a simple tune as he kept it tucked inside his shadow, squinting to make out the images against the sun’s berating glare. The title, “The Lord’s Ember,” flashed on the screen in that classic soured-green hue. The game was stupid, but Michael found himself lost in the simple repetition.

“Raise an army, scorch the lands, start the world anew,” quoted Michael beneath his breath. He had played through the story a dozen times: Zealots worshiping fire and fighting against the heinous barbarian invasion. How he got this game past his mom, he never knew.

“Mickey!” yelled Michael’s mom, as she walked out onto the porch. “Please, stay off the roof!” Her tone suggested she wasn’t interested in arguing about the matter. “I am off to work, and I won’t be back until a little after midnight. Please take care of your brother. He’s looking for you, you know?”

“I’m always stuck watching Benny,” barked Michael with a groan.

“Well, it’s a good thing you two love each other. You’re thirteen, and more than capable of taking care of him while I’m at work. Now, dinner is in the fridge. I’ll see you tonight. Be safe and call if you need me!” She got into her car, turning it on as Michael dropped down to the yard. He waved goodbye as her car backed out, the sun’s glare blinding him as it reflected off the white Camry. Michael turned and walked up the wooden steps of the small deck, to see his little brother waiting in the doorway.

“Hey Mickey,” said Benny shyly, stepping out of the way to let his brother inside. Benny was small even for a boy of nine. Mom always said Dad was a scrawny kid too. Michael glanced at pictures hanging against the wall. A photo of their family in front of a firehouse hung front and center. Scrawny or not, Benny looked a lot like him.

“Hey Benny,” said Michael with a sigh, “I told you to call me Michael. Mickey is a kid’s name.”

Benny squinted like a detective bearing down on his suspect. Michael couldn’t stand how his brother always called his bluff. “I was thinking,” Benny began, “that maybe we could go out to the Fortress today. Can we?”

“Ah come on, Benny. It’s so hot. I don’t really feel like biking out that far into the woods.”

“Please!” Benny begged, “I just miss him. It’s not that far anyways! I won’t even lose my breath!”

Michael hated this. Benny was too young to even remember him. What would staring at a pile of junk do anyways? Michael looked down at his little brother and began to seethe. If he told Benny no, he would just cry to mom anyways.

“Fine,” Michael belted, “But I won’t wait up if you fall behind.”

The two grabbed their bikes and made for the woods. The smell of the rubber tires pressed to the hot asphalt was sharp to Michael’s nose. Standing astride his pedals, Michael pressed all his weight down to push himself forward. The metallic cherry of his bike frame glistened as the noon sun beat against him. Michael looked back despite himself to see his brother keeping pace. The trees along the roadside passed quickly in a blurred pastel of greens and yellows.

What the hell is the point of heading out here, repeated in Michael’s mind. His brother just didn’t get it. He didn’t remember Dad well enough. I would be better off forgetting, Michael thought to himself, Benny too. It would be easier on all of us.

As Michael reached the dirt trail, he slowed slightly, resisting the urge to check over his shoulder. The clack of an Ace of Hearts nestled against his brother’s spokes told Michael that Benny had stayed closer than he anticipated. The trail was spotted with fallen branches and debris, making for a rough ride. Each bump kicked up a puff of dirt and filled the air with dust. His brother’s coughs left Michael guilty for pulling so far ahead.

Dad always had us clean the trail as we travelled, thought Michael in dismay. Its rough condition acted as another reminder: Four years had passed and no one else had made an effort to take over his father’s actions.

As the Fortress appeared in the distance, Michael’s eyes went wide. The Fortress was never more than a shack made from trimmed branches and lumber scraps. Yet, for some reason, Michael remembered it as this grand endeavor. He and his dad had spent weeks out here putting it together piece by piece. He was a little younger than Benny was now at the time. Looking at this dilapidated pile of webbed sticks felt like staring into a forgotten dream. Nothing quite looked as Michael had hoped, and every detail was a shadow of his memory.

“It’s still here!” yelled Benny as he jumped off his bike, running towards the entrance of the shack. “I can’t believe it! When’d we last come here, Mickey? A year ago, at least.”

Benny rushed towards the shack, pushing past the soft webbing dressing the entry. Michael sighed, laying his bike against the ground and following his brother inside. The inside of the Fortress was as worn as its exterior; the wooden walls and roofing had done little to keep out the elements. Michael glanced at a poster his dad had pinned to the far wall. What had once been a red tomahawk over a blue and white background was now a greyed peeling reminder. Benny, shuffling through a pile in the corner, pulled out a small metal box.

“How did you even remember that was there?” asked Michael in surprise.

“Look!” Benny screeched as he flung open the lid. The lock box was full of trinkets, including a worn picture of both boys and their father. Benny had to be no older than five. A goofy smile scripted his face, revealing one missing front tooth which gave him a checkered grin. Michael looked to have been around nine, his baseball jersey caked in grass stains from a recent game.

“Dad,” whispered Michael as he looked down at the image of the man holding the two of them between his arms. “This was right before he died,” he coughed, stifling the emotions creeping up the back of his throat. He handed the picture to Benny who shoved it into his pocket.

As Benny sifted through the box, he pulled out a small metal lighter and passed it to Michael. Despite the heavy tarnish, Michael flicked it open with ease. His thumb nestled snuggly against the worn lip of the cap. It had been worked smooth by his father’s old habits. Michael sat and played with it, mimicking familiar motions. He struck the flint, and to his surprise, the wick lit. He stared, engrossed in the flame’s flicker. Michael clenched his eyes, pushing away the memory of his father and him sitting beside the fire. Dad was never one to start fires with sticks and cheated every time they camped.

“Let’s go,” he barked at his little brother. “You saw the place. You got what you wanted.” Benny scurried to his feet, packing his pockets with small scraps of whatever he found sentimental.

As they walked out, Michael turned around to look at the shack once more. Tattered and worn, like the lighter still pressed against his palm. The rusted edges pinching from the tension of his grip.

It shouldn’t come back home, Michael thought, None of it could. We need a restart.

He looked around for his brother as he relaxed his fingers. Benny was still distracted, walking towards their bikes. He struck the flint of the lighter one more time, nestling the flame against the wood and the brush. Turning away, Michael’s foot caught on a root. He couldn’t turn to look back. Not yet at least.

“C’mon, I’ll race you home,” Michael yelled, jogging to catch up to where they had laid their bikes.

The two rode off at a steady pace, but either guilt or curiosity kept Michael glancing behind him. Eventually his brother noticed too, catching a glimpse of the smoke that had begun to rise from behind the trees. The blackish grey was thin but plumed against the deep rich blue of the cloudless sky.

“Wait!” Benny yelled, turning his bike around, “Something must have happened!”

Before Michael could stop his brother, Benny dug into his pedals, rushing back towards the Fortress as fast as he could. Michael panicked, screaming for his brother to hold up.

“Benny! Benny stop!” Michael shouted between staggered breaths.

The fortress looked less like a dream and more a nightmare as Michael took in the scenery of what he had done. Fire had encased the outer walls, grasping at the roof as if calling for every branch and timber to join in the crackling clamor. Benny reached the shack first, leaping from his bike and rushing inside.

Michael froze momentarily, Why the hell would he do that, he screamed in his head. Swallowing hard, he rushed in after.

“Benny!” Michael rasped, searching the floor of the small shack with a petrified stare.

Benny was back in the corner where they had found the lockbox. His hands dug at the loose dirt and debris, quickly uncovering a small pile of wrapped sheets. The flames outside had begun to singe the interior, embers cascading from the ceiling. Michael winced as the roofing creaked in warning.

“I saw this before, but knew you’d get upset,” Benny pleaded, “I couldn’t lose it, too.”

Folded within the sheets was Dad’s old bunker gear. Frayed and torn, the black and yellow striped helmet and matching jacket had been neatly tucked away, hidden in this place all this time. The sight of the station number etched into the helmet’s front plate, and the heat of the fire pressing against them, filled Michael with horrendous shame. As if echoing Michael’s thoughts, the entrance of the shack began to sag before collapsing into itself. Flaming debris rained down from the ceiling and Benny screamed as the embers singed them both.

“Quick, put on Dad’s old gear!” yelled Michael, dressing his brother in the dusty jacket, and placing the oversized helmet on his head. “Come here! Get in my arms,” Michael beckoned. He picked up his little brother and held him close to his chest.

Michael looked at the fallen doorway for a moment. The heat from the burning roof licked his scalp while the smoke seemed to fight to smother their lungs. Lunging against the door, Michael held his brother tight. Benny screamed as his brother’s shoulder bashed past the fallen lumber. The boys stumbled and fell, rolling forward away from the fire. Both coughed as Michael ran his hands across his brother looking for serious burns.

“Oh Benny, oh Benny,” Michael pleaded as he patted down his crying brother. “We need to get to the road.”

Carrying his brother on his back, Michael began to walk down the beaten path, back the way they’d come. The fire behind them had turned into a frenzy, leaping to higher branches in its hunger. The taste of ash and residue stuck to Michael’s tongue, and his arms and shoulders were screaming in pain. He began to hear the sound of sirens echoing in the distance. It wasn’t long until the fire department arrived. The ringing of their alarm washed over Michael, overcoming the crackle of the burning woods behind them. As the sound rung between his ears, Michael felt weak. His knees began to buckle as the firefighters ran up to them.

“Hey! Those are Harrison’s boys,” Michael heard one of them yell as they rushed to check their injuries. Others flooded past them, hoses in hand.

By the time their mother got there, the evening sun had worked its way towards the horizon. Mickey and Benny sat propped on the back of the fire truck, EMTs having bandaged their burns to the best of their abilities. Benny, luckily, was relatively unhurt with only minor burns and scrapes. But Mickey realized the same could not be said for him. His shoulder, neck, and parts of his scalp were more serious, and blisters were forming on his forearms. The moment Mickey locked eyes with his mom, he began to cry. She rushed from the car, pulling them close while she spoke to the EMT.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Mickey wept, “I’m sorry! I… I just.” He wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist as his sobs mingled with his words in the back of his throat.

His mother looked down trying to softly soothe them both, “I know, Michael, I know.” Behind them, the soot clung to the air as a shapeless blob. The final wisps of fire were close to snuffed, as the few remaining embers danced softly in the wind.