The beautiful mysterious wildflower we found on a nature walk.
There are times when writing another word feels like terrorism. What begins with the beauty of an fragrant curly pea vine ends with my fingers deep in the dirt, digging further into the soil, exhuming the dead below.
What begins with a garden winds its way into a grave.
This is not what I intended- not this horror on a sunny autumn day- but there is dirt under my nails and I keep on digging. The choice is not mine anymore because now I must know what happened- must tell this desecration clean.
Perhaps the writer can only expunge the rubber-necker's shame by dignifying it in a story. I ask forgiveness in advance for the ghosts and goblins I set loose in the world. If there was any other way...