Tale Foundry is a great group that one day I will write about, but for now, I suggest you check out their writing group.
She had stopped smiling after the party.
She would not tell her dear butler why she was hurting, just that there was alcohol and a boy involved. Maybe more than one boy, but she would not tell them or perhaps remember enough to tell them just how many of the young man’s friends there had been.
It did not matter, what did matter was that the boy and his friends had hurt her and taken her smile from them.
Every time some tragedy befell them, they would find the article and present it to her with the morning tea. She would look over it among the other news, but no smile, just a glazed look when she saw their faces and names. That look was better than the pain and fear she showed when she crossed them on the streets. It was better than the time the boy had taken hold of her shoulder at a dinner party and they had to spend an hour convincing her to let them into the powder room she had locked herself in.
When one friend died from an illness and she saw the news by her favorite biscuits, there was not a smile, but there was something. Something different. A look in her eye that might become a smile.
When the news of one dying from a drunken accident came along fresh strawberries, she lost the stiffness in her shoulders.
News of one dying because of a rampaging horse was with pancakes and the reappearance of full night sleeps.
A mugging gone wrong was accompanied with eggs sunny side up and an expression besides numb despair.
The body found hanging from a rope brought it with the first time she had eaten more than a crumb of the toast it had been delivered with.
It was not a smile, but a scream they got when she saw the paper of the boy’s death and his head on a platter next to it.
Posted too late to submit, but maybe next time. Find more of Morgan Gray’s writings here!