It is common courtesy to give credit where credit is due. The next photo in this sea of memes is the PROMPT. 

PHOTO PROMPT – © J Hardy Carroll

FRIDAY FICTION CONCRIT SUBGROUP

Let’s give it a go for another week. Click on the line above to learn how to participate. For those who would rather not receive constructive criticism there’s no obligation. It’s also good to remember that concrit is the suggestions of the giver. There’s no pressure to agree. Personally I received some good suggestions last week. 

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Wednesday, November 11 is Veterans Day here in the States. Thank you, Jan, for your twenty-eight years in the United States Navy. And thank you to all the men and women who have served in the military.

Genre:Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

Since I’ve agreed with another fictioneer’s concrit and changed a line, it’s been requested that I post my original post so everyone can see what I changed. I think it’s a good idea so here it is. No need to read if you don’t want to. It’s basically the same story with some minor tweaking. 😉 

Here’s the original version:

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 defecation and decaying flesh made her stomach roil. Her back and neck ached from three nights without sleep.

“Don’t you remember me, Miss Clara?”

In her mind’s eye she saw the bright child in 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.

***

Here’s the update:

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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