The body on the slab was not that of Alec Darrow. Surely, it was someone else. Some other poor soul who had found themselves on the business end of a gun. No, Alec had been alive earlier that morning, as his wife Evelyn had kissed him goodbye on her way out the door. His eyes had been their usual bright blue, intent and mischievous. A familiar smile had decorated his face like a congenial garland. His strong hands had exuded warmth as they grazed across her belly earlier that morning, before either of them had crawled out of bed to face the day. But now, his eyes were vacant and closed. Closed to a world that no longer counted him amongst its living. And, as Evelyn took his hand in hers, she recoiled at their cool and clamminess. It was not until she looked behind his left ear and saw the scar he'd carried since a biking accident years before, that she knew for sure it was him. And that no amount of denial could make that any less of a reality.
Debating between starting my story here or the day of Alec's burial. Knowing some who have lost spouses, they have said that the day their spouse was buried was the day it really hit them. That it wasn't a dream, that the deceased was NOT coming back, etc. I might work on that tomorrow after I have gotten some sleep and then post another. But please let me know what you think. I'm jumping back in the writing saddle after a relatively lengthy absence so I need to get these literary muscles a-workin' again.
Oh -- one more thing. Someone had asked me in a PM what I was going for as far as target audience. I would say i would like for my target audience to be people who would pick anything from Hemingway to Picoult to Bohjalian to Stowe to Bronte. I have selections from all but Hemingway in my library here at home. Had a bad experience with Hemingway in middle school (bad grade on test on excerpt in reading book), so I have been remiss to read him since. But maybe I should just be the "growed-up" that I am and crack one open anyway.
Alright. Bedtime calls. 'Night all!!


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