A Woman in the wind;
‘The church clock strikes eight, so those villagers who are aware know without checking that it is six. A cock crows. A body lies across the doorstep of the church, a line of crumb-carrying ants marches across the fedora covering its face. There is a serene, momentary the fedora covering its face. There is a serene, momentary quiet after the chimes cease. A figure glides past the church wall, before the silence is cracked by a baby crying.’
Mrs Crawly picked up her pace along the cobble streets stumbling as the sun threatened to crack upon the east. Something was different this time, she no longer heaved with the excitement of it all but gasped for any manageable breath. Salty tears once again began to sting her eyes as she whispered “This, is the last…time!” to no one in particular. She wrapped her shawl around her fragile body to ward off the bitter night but every footstep towards the estate became even more laboring than the last. She didn’t know if she could carry through with this anymore.
No one noticed as Mrs Crawly slid in through the parlor doors, but then again, no one ever noticed much, not even the swell of her stomach over the past year. As the warmth of the decadent house spread through her bones Mrs Crawly sank in a heap. No tears fell, no sound uttered; nothing. She was numb.
(A Creative Writing Handbook, Neal, 2009, Page 2)