Writing

Eve sat at the edge of the world. She didn’t cry. Not today. Drawing on long decades of her first youth to repress all tears. Today she just sat and looked out across the Mississippi from the ancestral place of ancestors who were not hers. But she’d asked permission and been granted so she climbed the steps and, at the edge, said her prayer yelling soundlessly into the loss with words made only of feeling, speaking the language of God to curse God.

(Story will be linked as it develops)