I wrote this short story using the picture prompt, which is at the bottom of this post. I could not have gotten this story to the state it is now without some generous friends who gave me advice. I do NOT own the picture, and I found it on google.
In times of trouble, when times get rough and we just don’t seem to be able to hang on to life anymore, then it seems it’s best to be alone. Sometimes it is, sometimes it is not. The line of whether it is or not depends on the confidence level of yourself, of others.
Down below me is a woman, tall and frail. She is crying, her mascara running down her pale face. Her long dress, which had been her mothers, drearily hangs, trailing in the snow. The parasol, which is useless – only used for fashion – , is lightly held by shaking hands also carrying red roses.
I watch as this woman slowly shuffles through the snow and fog, barely able to see in front of her. She is heading to a tall stone, a stone which holds a name. The name on the stone, as this lady draws closer, is Parker, I realise. The stone says that he had died at age four, two years ago today. This was where this lady’s son was buried.
Buried alive? I do not have that answer… though it is quite possible. People below still haven’t figured out that the difference between life and death isn’t all that obvious.
Slowly, I watch the lady, with tears still running off of her face and down onto her black dress, bend down onto her knees, falling to the ground. The roses slip from her grip but she stops them before they fall to the ground. The parasol softly hits the snow, not making a sound. The only sound to be heard is the lady’s pathetic sobbing.
Carefully with precision, she clears the dirt away from the bottom of the stone, revealing a black and white picture of a little boy. That little boy, I assume, was her son.
She shudders and carefully places the roses by the stone. She closes her eyes. I see her lips move, but I can’t make out the words, maybe she is praying… or talking to grave with hopes that the little boy would hear her. Then, with great effort she picks up the parasol and starts to get up.
The dress which is resting by her knees is wet, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Out of habit, she dusts off the non-existent dirt, and then rises to her full height. With blurry eyes she looks one last time at the grave, before turning around and slowly walks back to where she came from.
Back into the fog, through the trees, and back to the big plantation her husband owned. The plantation where death is not a rare thing, but a daily occurrence.