Poem, Sagas, Short story

The happy widow.

So many whispers in a cycle of rage with hands to never come clean. It was to be but a squeal in the night, no fight, but a silence soon after.

The plan had been thought and rewards were all known, all she needed was to fulfill her task, and bring to the world her dreams as truth.

But fate weaves the strands of lives of its own accord and few may ever guide it, let alone leave a mark of their own.

But upon this day, so the Gods had seen fit, or fate with its humor on show, came a lodger to spoil the plans of her toil from the wedding she entered for greed.

To bed she went early, her dagger in hand, so she might rest before her deed in the early morning. A thief it would be, that came in the night to be responsible for what she would do.

Her husband had drank from his day in the field, bringing with him her brother to rest. For together they toiled ’til the day had long gone and now they would rest as they should.

How fortunate for the husband that fate would see him asleep in his favorite chair, while his wife’s brother sought drunk a bed in which to sleep where his eyes closed and dreams would soon follow.

A smile came to her as she heard a man snore and woke with her dagger in hand, and deep in the chest of her very own blood, she stabbed and pierced her own brother’s heart.

By the flicker of flame the truth was soon shown, and she screamed as her brother would gasp. The village awoke and rushed to her cries where she stood as she shook in her place.

Standing in the mirror, she saw nought but blood and the people who knew what she’d done. So much for the dreams of wealth she had made, the happy widow would instead be hanged.





A prompt response.

5 thoughts on “The happy widow.”

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