First Page Friday
May. 28th, 2010 03:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdFor your enjoyment, I will be posting the first page of a different story every Friday.
We'll start with Howl at the Mistletoe, print or ebook
This is from "Firstfruits"
The icy winter road that took the lives of Clarindy Wishom's family melted into spring-wet blacktop shaded by yellow-green leaves before the three small coffins and one large one were lowered into the ground at Beulah Hill
Cemetery. But as Easter passed and summer came on, the church ladies worried about Miss Clarindy's frame of mind.
“All alone in that big house, just rattling like a pea in a can,” one would say.
“Hasn't got rid of their things, either. It must be just awful, seeing those little toys every day.”
Everyone agreed something had to be done. But nobody was pleased with who did it.
Clarindy sat watching the front walk, as she always did this time of afternoon. It often took her until almost four to realize that Lila and Evan weren't coming home from school and that Michelle hadn't just taken a long nap.
Most evenings, she went to the kitchen, stared listlessly at the frozen dinners and covered-dish casseroles, watching the frost sparkle among the lumps of hamburger or chopped potatoes or pies. She'd frozen a lot of stuff from the wake and she wasn't even sure it'd be good five months later.
The doorbell startled her out of her watching. She used the coat-rack mirror to pat down her hair in a gesture so automatic, she would probably do it when the Judgement Trump sounded.
The sight of Oholah Jenkins on her doorstep, a bundle in her hands, shocked Clarindy into motion. Oholah Jenkins never went calling. Nor would most have received her if she had.
Although she sat in the third pew, her cane planted solidly between her feet, every Sunday at Pisgah Baptist Church, common gossip still called her a witch.
We'll start with Howl at the Mistletoe, print or ebook
This is from "Firstfruits"
The icy winter road that took the lives of Clarindy Wishom's family melted into spring-wet blacktop shaded by yellow-green leaves before the three small coffins and one large one were lowered into the ground at Beulah Hill
Cemetery. But as Easter passed and summer came on, the church ladies worried about Miss Clarindy's frame of mind.
“All alone in that big house, just rattling like a pea in a can,” one would say.
“Hasn't got rid of their things, either. It must be just awful, seeing those little toys every day.”
Everyone agreed something had to be done. But nobody was pleased with who did it.
Clarindy sat watching the front walk, as she always did this time of afternoon. It often took her until almost four to realize that Lila and Evan weren't coming home from school and that Michelle hadn't just taken a long nap.
Most evenings, she went to the kitchen, stared listlessly at the frozen dinners and covered-dish casseroles, watching the frost sparkle among the lumps of hamburger or chopped potatoes or pies. She'd frozen a lot of stuff from the wake and she wasn't even sure it'd be good five months later.
The doorbell startled her out of her watching. She used the coat-rack mirror to pat down her hair in a gesture so automatic, she would probably do it when the Judgement Trump sounded.
The sight of Oholah Jenkins on her doorstep, a bundle in her hands, shocked Clarindy into motion. Oholah Jenkins never went calling. Nor would most have received her if she had.
Although she sat in the third pew, her cane planted solidly between her feet, every Sunday at Pisgah Baptist Church, common gossip still called her a witch.
