Silver moonlight led Mary to Johnny’s grave. The cold steel in her pocket was as chilled as the swirling mist. Tears stung her eyes. Hugging the wet marble, cheek pressed against his name, Mary’s wracking sobs disrupted the still air,
“Johnny! My boy! My baby boy!”
Pouring out every last sorrow from her being, she now lay inert in the wet grass.
Mary’s trembling hand clasped, then raised, the pistol.
An icy invisible hand clenched her wrist.
“You know, I used to dream of you, Dad, and I sailing together. Go to him, Mum. He needs you.”
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the effervescent host of Friday Fictioneers.