. The next photo is the PROMPT. Remember, all photos are property of the photographer, donated for use in Friday Fictioneers only. They shouldn’t be used for any other purpose without express permission. It is proper etiquette to give the contributor credit.
The photo is of an old graveyard. It looks like it’s beside a church. At any rate the headstones look to be quite old.
The following story is a rerun from ten years ago as I’m still on vacation visiting my brother. Actually at this point, I’m bidding a fond farewell to him. The photo is also a rerun. Some of you wrote stories for it. Feel free to rerun yours as well.
Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100
WHERE THE GRAPES OF WRATH ARE STORED
“Water…somebody…please.”
Clara knelt next to the Union soldier and held a cup to his lips. The stench of feces and decaying flesh made her stomach roil. Her back and neck ached from three nights without sleep.
“Don’t you remember me, Miss Clara?”
At once she recognized the bright child from her long ago Texas schoolroom.
“Of course I do,” she whispered. “Save your strength, David. We’ll talk later.”
In one heart-stopping moment something ripped through her right sleeve. The cup dropped and David fell back, quivering in the agonies of death.
Clara Barton never mended the bullet hole.
.
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Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple 