As promised, it’s December, so I’m back with the Friday Fictioneers. NaNoWriMo was great – I miss it already, and I’m desperate to finish my novel, but December is never a great month to write, and especially this year when we have guests for more than half of it! So quick, while I have a chance, here’s a story for Rochelle‘s prompt – a photograph from long-term and highly-committed Fictioneer, Janet Webb.
Death Becomes Her
“It does what?” Larry asked.
“It becomes her,” I said. “She looks good on it.”
“I’m sure that’s a great comfort,” he said, indicating her grieving bastard of a husband, then edging away.
“It is,” I said – to her really, or myself. It wasn’t clear to me where one began and the other ended. She wasn’t “a beauty” in life; too round, she always sighed, although some of us like a fuller figure.
I could hear her voice in my head – bemoaning the figure that had turned heads. Usually the wrong kind, she said.
“And mine,” I whispered.