So I was told to take an assessment of my readers about the recent bout of grief. I thought it wasnt wise so instead I rather just post a little story I’ve been working on which has helped with my bouts of grief. This is just the intro to a short historical fiction story I’m working on:
-Have you heard of the tale of the widow who wanders near the Coosa riverfront? She strolls the streets with blood painted down her dress and lips stained dark red. You see, her husband perished in 1858 just before December from an injury sustained while tending the fields. An accident, which punctured his liver, and to this day his passing, has been unresolved. On cool evenings you can hear and feel him calling to his young bride. The echo of his yearning is as sharp as a gators bite.
The incident happened on a Monday morning. She heard his shrill from the field and rushed out to find a well of crimson pulsating from his gut. Unable to stanch the flow, she cradled his head in her lap like a babe until his body froze with his final breath. Every spring the crops in which he passed away erupt with a tint of rosiness and as late fall approaches the ground softens like it did when saturated with blood.-
I love creating the scene, story and characters. I actually completed this story and looking to get someone to pick it up. I’m working on another couple too. Civil war era in south has been my muse.