Saturday, June 23, 2012


My days inside the house were lists. Lists of chores, lists of my wrongdoings, lists of wrongs done to her. I came to know each tragedy, each slight she had suffered and the revenge she delivered to each who deserved it. I knew her mood by the slight of her eye. Days she was happy weren't too bad, and I told her how pretty she was and how she'd done right with all that she'd done. I washed her clothes and fixed her meals, all the while singing inside myself to my baby. Singing and thinking of his little place in the basement, wanting to be there and talking to him. At night I would go out beyond the woods and pick him flowers, bring them back and put them over him, hoping he could smell their sweet, green scent.

Bean, from Flowers for the Dead

Image source.


Jay's Shadow said...


Is Bean going to allow a weekly posting of her short stories?

Rot said...

: )

Anonymous said...

This writing is very fine, very condensed.
More, Bean?

Unknown said...

I loved it :)

Pam Morris said...

how wonderfully, eerily creepy! bean needs to put a little book together--would love to hear some creepy tales to go with photos of your creations!