I usually can’t write tight enough to have any success with writing a short story. Now I’m attempting to write a short story collection to send to my editor. In all fairness, three of the short stories are already written and will only need polishing. I needed a fourth to complete the collection. I remembered a story I had started years ago and never finished. Here is the prologue of Haunted Summer.
Look at her lying there on the old iron bed. They’ve just bathed her and changed the linens, so the room smells fresh and clean as a summer breeze. If only they’d open the window, she could smell the river and the sweet honeysuckle vine growing on its banks. They’ve brought videos for her to watch other people’s lives when she has none.
I’m the only one who can breathe life into her numb body.
Maribelle would be…
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