This week’s prompt from Sunday Photo Fiction is a very nice garden scene. You’d think it would inspire something warm and fuzzy. As I have been having little inspiration this past week, I started out with “I can’t seem to write.” The story grew from there. Maybe it is kind of a happy ending.
The garden swing groaned as Marietta collapsed onto it. She had been trying to write for two days. The pages just stared blankly back at her. She had tried everything, even stream of consciousness. That had been a mistake. She had burned those sheets in the kitchen stove. It seemed her horror stories had been inspired by Allen.
She hadn’t believed she needed him anymore. He had terrorized her for so long. Nothing she did pleased him. He had always been demanding but, ever since the mines closed, he’d turned into a frightening bully.
It had been a year since he even bothered looking for work. Their only income had been from the stories she mailed off to the Penny Dreadfuls using his name. The broken nose and loose teeth had been bad enough, but stomping on her fingers went too far. She needed her hands to write.
She stared at the cherry tree. It was covered with blooms. A heavy crop seemed likely this year. He would make good fertilizer. With a grimace, she rose and picked up the shovel. Her hands were stained and blistered, but unbroken. Digging a grave was hard work. Maybe she would try nonfiction.
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