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Weekly Contest #262
The day she saw the doe on the hill was the very same day she buried her husband in the backyard. It was a hot, muggy, August day. Thunderstorms that shook the very frame of their old farm had passed through for three days, and Cecil had died on the first of them. Thelma had been waiting for it, not out of excitement, but simply because she knew it was coming. Cecil’s body had been aching since he came back from the mines, all quivering lip and sharp back pains, and she could sense the sickness like a dog. It was inevitable when one day...
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