Short Story - "Man's Second-Best Friend" by Melissa M.

There were no potatoes left in the bin.  George lifted the last remaining onion, turning it in his gnarled hand as if it might suddenly turn brown and sprout eyes.  Onion soup would have to do, though his stomach voted for meat and potatoes.

His eyes flicked toward the portrait of Phoebe--the copper frame was worn to a greenish hue on either side.  His wife didn't smile at him from the wall, but her eyes did, and he remembered the smiles of yore: her lopsided smile when she tricked him into thinking there was a skunk in the parlor; her full, heart-shaped smile when she laughed; her soft, barely-there smile when she viewed the flames of sunset. . . . An ache born not of hunger enveloped him, and he let out the breath he hadn't known he had been holding.

Phoebe knew how to peel a potato in ten seconds, how to chop an onion in perfect, tiny squares, all while her soup broth bubbled with aromas better than expensive town restaurants.

He dashed moisture away with the back of a knuckle.  "Can't blame it on the onion, now can I?"  He chuckled at the cat, a tabby with green eyes.  Phoebe had called the feline Sydney, after the sad Dickens character who'd given his life for a friend.  More often she had referred to the tabby as Syd or Syddy.  How he had scoffed at those names!

George and Phoebe did not have children, marrying after the time for such things was likely.  The cats were Phoebe's "children," and last of all they'd had Sydney.

After slowly turning to the chopping board, he then impaled the onion.  His eyes were soon flooding in earnest.

~~~

A ball landed inches in front of George's feet.  He stooped and picked it up, his hands trembling, his joints popping like fragile strings breaking.

A snicker sounded.

"Good day, young man," said George, smiling at the boy who slouched amid the bushes.  "Your ball?"

"Yeah.  See if you can throw it here, old man."

Pressing his lips and brows together, George pulled his arm back to throw the rubber ball.  His hand muscles gave a sharp tug and he felt the ball slip from his fingers.

The boy laughed, slapping his hand on his thigh.

Why do you even try?  George sighed.  You're not the athlete you once were.  Only the trophy in his bedroom evidenced that he had ever been able to play baseball.

George trudged the way he had come from.  He made sure he held his head high, even if his shoulders could not stay as tall as they once could.

To town he must go, but he would take the longer way around.  The pinch in his toes went unnoticed.

At the general store, he smiled at a little girl, who hid behind her mother's skirt.  The mother gripped the girl close and turned away abruptly.

Did he look like a killer, a madman?  George ran a hand over his bushy white beard.  It should make him look like Jolly St. Nick--all right, maybe not so jolly--but more often people seemed to think he was a shifty no-good, or worse, a disgusting piece of humanity.  He knew he was old, going on ninety-three, and his skin lined like the wagon-ruts to town, but was there no hope for human friendship at his age?

~~~

George set down the paper sack with a groan.  "Too heavy, Syddy.  But then, you wouldn't know about that."

The cat stared up at him, confirming the words as it remained sprawled out on the chair.

When George thumped a tin on the counter, Sydney sat up with a meow.  The meows grew more insistent when George pried the can open and the smell of tuna permeated the room.

"Just a minute, you vulture," George said with a chuckle.  Sydney was winding back and forth between George's legs.

The cabin was lantern-lit, the glow just enough to see by as dusk came on.  George sat against the quilted pillow on the couch and leaned his head back on the seat.  "I'll just rest here a minute, Syd.  Mebbe I don't need supper . . ."

A questioning meow from Sydney drew his gaze.  "Yeah, I know I should eat, like you, buddy--but this old body is tired."

Sydney jumped up on George's lap and began grooming his paws, rubbing them across his face--first one side, then the other, over and over.  George ran a hand over Sydney's fur, silkiest fur he'd ever felt, except maybe when Sydney had been a kitten.

The cat purred a raspy purr and closed his eyes.

A smile played about George's lips and his eyelids took the same downward direction; images of frolicking kittens and Phoebe's smile blurred and brightened.

~~~

Something woke him--probably Sydney's wild meow.  He never sounded like that.  What was it?  George sniffed, still groggy.  Did he burn supper?  And that crackling, that heat . . .  His eyes flew open.  Flames!  Big, larger than people, and performing a drunken dance.  George pushed himself to his half-numb feet, limping to the front door.  "Sydney!" he called.  The roof was about to cave in--there was no going back in.  He left the door open in case Sydney could come out.

George wrung his hands and squinted into the blinding flames.  "Sydney, come!  Come on, buddy--"  He choked on his words, on the smoke, on more than he could fathom.

Soon the whole cabin resembled a monstrous bonfire.  Boards fell and formed a twisted, fiery mountain.  The land was wet from recent rain, so there was no likelihood of the fire spreading.  But it had done its damage.  George fell to the ground, moaning.  "Sydney, my Sydney."

He bit his knuckle to keep from crying out.  But who would hear?  The owl?  No one cared, even if they did hear!  They had shown that time and again.  A howl escaped his lips.  He rocked back and forth, like when he was a child.

"No use.  No use."

~~~

A businessman and his wife found the body, cold and still next to the charred house.

The woman stared, not moving.  Only her skirt rippled in the cool breeze.

"Old Man George."  The businessman stooped and put a finger on the cold wrist, not expecting, or finding, a pulse.  "I wonder what happened."

The woman touched the pin at her throat.  "Why didn't I do it?  Ask him to our house?"

The man blinked at her.  "That may have done nothing.  You can't blame yourself."

A blackbird flew overhead.  "Can't I?"

Short Story - "War Wounds"

I wrote this for a contest.  It has gone through a lot of edits, with help from my lovely, critiquing family.  I'm sure it is still not perfect, especially since I chose to ignore one of my brother's bigger quibbles with the "Lazarus" scene.  He gave me the idea I used for a major plot point, so I'm very thankful for that (it is a little out of the known historical framework, but not beyond the realm of possibility).  Hope you enjoy!

~~~

Reclining in a cane chair, Ethan closed his eyes and shooed a buzzing fly away from his head.  It was the hottest day he ever remembered in Tennessee, and even the shade provided from the sprawling oak only served to cut the temperature enough to allow him to breathe. He was recovering slowly from his war wounds, but this scorching heat was worse than the pain below his stump of a leg.  Tipping the last bit of water into his mouth, he only got a drop or two, and licked his lips, tasting tin.

He was about to prop himself up on crutches and replenish his water when he heard the noise: a boom like a cannon.  He froze, fingernails digging into palms, eyes wide, limbs trembling.  Firing all around; he must shoot!  General Lee was counting on him, as were his friends nearby—Tommy was moaning, his ear a bloody stub.  Asa was already dead.  Smoke, lots of smoke—where was his rifle?  He charged forward, stumbled, fire jabbing his leg.  Tears blended with the smoke, creating a distorted picture of a blue-clad soldier, peering down at him, saber in hand.  "God, help!" he pleaded.

Someone was gripping his arm, calling, "Ethan!  Are you all right?"

He smelled rose and lemon.  Above him was a woman, dark hair, gray dress, a comrade—but why out in harm's way?  He blinked, things becoming clearer.  His wife!  Why was she here? . . . But then, he was home, not on the field of battle.  Stillness reigned, not artillery fire.  "Rachel!"  His mouth wobbled, and he clung to her.

"Shh," she whispered, "you're safe. God brought you home.  The war is over."

Over in all but his mind.

Ethan's heartbeat slowed gradually.  "It felt so real—but I should'a known it wasn't," he said, grimacing. "It's happened so many times before."

"But not in a long while," Rachel soothed.

Ethan detected a pounding noise and lifted his head to see a horse and rider like a black bird of prey swooping in their direction.  The hoof-beats thundered, then quieted, dust swirling about the dancing legs near them.

"A cave-in!  There's been a cave-in at the mine!" the rider, Billy Alders, announced between gulps of air.  He rubbed a dirty hand across his sweating forehead.

Rachel gasped and held a hand to her throat.  "Was anyone inside?"

"Two dynamite men—the others got out in time.  One is Jim Lyle, the other is a Yankee, Daniel Compton."

A Yankee?  Ethan had not heard of him before, and could hardly comprehend it. This man had the gall to rub their faces in the Union victory by moving South and taking one of their jobs!

" . . . need yer help, Ethan.  We heard you say something about how you've tried shaping blasts, so the rocks scatter in one direction—?"

This Yankee was likely in the Union Army, taking away the lives of Ethan's friends!  He could almost see the man now, a gun gripped tightly beneath an angry mouth.  But there was another man in the mine, too . . . and he was a Southerner.

"I-I'll help, but I've no guarantee of anything," Ethan answered.  "I've only read about it and made some experiments that seemed to work."

"We gotta try—there's not much time to lose."

Ethan nodded.  "I have some powder in the barn."  He grabbed his crutches and tried to keep up with the fleet-footed Billy.

"This it?"  Billy pulled out a barrel marked with a large red X.

"Yep.  Now get my metal pieces—they're in a blue crate in the loft."

Everything went fast, but Ethan felt in a daze, moving by rote.  The wagon wheels bumped over ruts as Rachel gripped the reins.  He felt like half a man anymore, manhood taken along with the half of his leg, memories haunting many of his waking hours, sometimes seeping into his dreams, awaking him and his wife as he screamed like a baby.  The baby they couldn't have.

His mind was yanked to the present when, after arriving at the mine, men surrounded their wagon and recounted at a fast clip what had happened and the problems they faced.  Background noises of metal clanking on rock distracted him, but he strained to listen to their voices.

"That Yankee and Jim Lyle were working with dynamite—and wham—the whole back of it collapsed!  We were close enough to the entrance to get out . . ."

"We're tryin' to get 'em out, but it could take all day, and we don't know if they have enough air to live."

"That's why we need your help, to blast 'em out, but without hurting 'em!"

Ethan swallowed back fear and tried to speak with confidence.  "There's a chance I can do it, yes.  With God's help."

While some put their efforts into digging with shovels, picks, axes, and even metal buckets, Ethan pried the top off his crate.  Rachel came to his side, her eyes wide.  "Can I do anything?"

"Pray," Ethan returned.  "Pray hard."

Ethan took the pieces that made up his charge.  He filled the back with gunpowder, and inserted a hollow metal cylinder in the front. All the while, his thoughts whirled, each blow of metal ax nearby jostling his nerves, bringing to mind the crack of rifles, the blood, the screams, the homes destroyed by cannons.  He fought to breathe, to remember that there was one Southern man in that cave-in--one man with a conscience, protecting the innocent, protecting their state's rights and their homes.  This must be done for him! When Ethan was nearly done with his intricate work, he called a halt to the digging.

"I need to know what side of the cave-in they're on.  Can we listen a while between a few signal taps?"

The group consented, quieting almost instantly.

Ethan held his breath.  His ears picked up a faint pinging noise beyond the rubble.  "I hear something!"

"That's gotta be them!  Jim's alive!"  Billy whooped.

"They're on the left side," Ethan mused.  He bowed his head over his powder-filled charge, praying silently, Lord, make this work.  Protect the people inside.  A fuse snaked its way out the back of the metal charge.  He wedged the device in a small cavity in the piled-up rocks.

"Everyone stand back."  His voice was calm, but laced with enough volume and authority that the people scattered like crows scared off by a rabid dog.  They settled again on the hill opposite the mine.

Sucking in a breath, Ethan found the end of the charge fuse, some four feet from the cave-in.  A solitary match is all it would take, the difference between silence and blast, quiet and chaos—life and death.  Prayers resounded in his mind for Jim. The other man . . . he would deal with that later. He struck the match and touched it to the fuse.  It flared up like a mini fire-breathing dragon.  Fumbling to situate his hands on his crutches, he backed away--and tripped.  Rachel cried out.  He righted himself and hobbled as fast as he could toward the safety of his wagon.

Within a minute, the explosion scattered rocks.  Dust cleared, and a three-foot wide hole gaped up at them.

After a moment of quiet, the men descended, eyeing the jagged hole as if it was the pit of a fiery abyss which no one dared cross. Then, a man coated in dirt, limping slightly, clothes tattered, emerged from the tunnel, like the biblical Lazarus coming out of the tomb.

"Daniel Compton!" a man exclaimed. Then, "Where's Jim?"

"He's dead," Daniel murmured.  "From the initial blast."

Ethan clenched his fists.  And this Yankee had barely a scratch on him!  "Maybe you planned this in order to kill Jim and us Rebels!"  He couldn't seem to stop the accusation from coming out, no matter how illogical it might sound.

Daniel's mouth dropped open.  "Jim and I were good friends."  His face crumpled.  "I'd rather it had been I who died than he!"

Ethan swallowed a sour taste in his throat.  What if he wished this man dead?  It was wrong, dead wrong, but he could not force himself to continue the Good Samaritan role.  He closed his eyes.  God, how can I help this man?  How can I—love him?  Then he was struck with the thought, How could Jesus love me, I who pierced His hands and feet with my sins?  Tears dotted his eyes.  God, forgive me!  He knew what he must do.

Just a few steps over, and he was in front of Daniel.  After a deep swallow, he stuck out a hand and said, "Forgive me, Mr. Compton.  The War has messed me up some.  Yankees—" He shook his head and shrugged. "It'll just take time and prayer for me to get over.  We'll get you to a doctor."

Daniel smiled.  "I understand, and thank thee.  And thee may call me what some of my friends do: Quaker Dan."

His Mercy Surrounding, Part 2

Read part 1 here!

As Becky nibbled on a chocolate chip cookie at home that evening, she let her mind wander.  There was nothing pressing for her attention at the moment.

Becky had been more than a little nervous to start volunteering at the pregnancy crisis center.  Normally, when she met a new person, there was a lot of self-consciousness.  What would the person think of her?  What would she say?  Would there be common ground?  But somehow, when she read about a woman who had been in the abortion industry, Abby Johnson, it had resonated and called her to action.  Abby Johnson was a real person.  Someone with a heart, and confusion, and an awakening.  And God used sweet, loving protestors--ones who prayed and gave instead of shouting--to awaken Abby's heart, to turn her from the abortion clinics to something different.

Now Becky would talk to people without much fear.  She still occasionally bit her lip after saying something she feared was stupid.  But God was with her, giving her the right words much of the time, and blessing the process, giving sparks of light to women wavering in their decisions, wondering and hurting and needing a friend.

Becky had not always been loving.  Before Christ saved her, showing her the beauty of love and sacrifice and changing her heart, there had been haughtiness and disdain for the lost, or those with tattoos and spiked hair and too-tight pants.  Now, she knew she was just like them, and so she loved them, wanted God's love to reach into their lives.  She still struggled with pride at times, still caught herself grimacing at the biker chicks, but not so much.  Their souls were the important things, the place everything started and ended, and the place God could dwell.

Tears dotted her eyes.  To show the same love Jesus showed . . . that was her goal.  Unattainable in its entirety, but the thing she strove to reflect.  Her words still halted and stumbled, she still felt too small for the task.  But that was the beauty of God.  He was enough.  More than enough.  His strength was sufficient, and with Him all things were possible!

Becky heard her mother greet her father with a loud exclamation of joy at the front door.  How blessed she was to have parents that loved each other and her, so much so that they lived and proclaimed the gospel every day!

"Becky, where are you?" she heard her dad ask.

She brushed her face clear of crumbs and tears, and answered as she hurried out, "Here I am!"

His whole face brightened.  "How was your day?"  His eyes were glued on hers.  Her weekly visits to the abortion clinic were an exciting thing for them all.

"Quite good, Daddy," she replied, leaning into his hug.  "It was Payton's first day, and I think she did very well.  She's much more personable than I am, chatting like an old friend to everyone."

Her father gave her a warning smile.  "That's good, but don't compare yourself.  You have a gift in your way of communicating, as well, one God placed in you for a reason.  Not that we can't all use improvement, but . . . you listen well, and that's a gift."

Becky felt her face warm and nodded.  "Thank you.  But Payton did well.  And we had a girl who I think seriously wants to have her baby after seeing the sonogram!"

"Praise God!"

"She looked physically ill when she looked at it, wide-eyed and frozen in place."  Becky grabbed the ice from the freezer and put three cubes in a glass for her dad.  "So many people don't realize . . ." 

Her dad squeezed her hand.  "I'm so thankful you can be there."

"So am I, Daddy," Becky said.  "So am I."

His Mercy Surrounding - Short Story, Part 1

I started writing this over a year ago, and it's still unfinished, but I thought I'd post what I have of it, and perhaps be more motivated to finish it.  I hope you like it!  Comments and critiques are welcome.

His Mercy Surrounding
Copyright 2015, Melissa Merritt

The light bulb flickered, then died, plunging the room into darkness.

"Stupid light," Greta mumbled, then rummaged for a flashlight in the purse that weighed down her shoulder.  She always came prepared for anything.

The beam of her flashlight revealed cracked walls, warped cardboard, and old pallets.  She thought she heard rustling.  Probably rats or a stray cat.

"Why did you have to pick this place, Adam?"  She clenched her jaw, turning slowly and scanning every corner of the room.  One never knew who else might be using this old warehouse as a rendezvous.

She heard footsteps shuffling.  Adam always walked like that, with his hands in his pockets and a quiet smile on his face.

"Hey, babe," Adam said, grinning as he reached her.  "What'd you call me at this deep, dark hour for, sounding so mysterious and frantic?  Missed me that much?"

Greta felt herself trembling, and tried to still herself.  She even managed a half smile.  "You wish."  She took a deep breath.  "I'm pregnant, Adam."

His eyebrows rose.

"I don't know what to do!"  She pressed her lips together to keep from crying.

He breathed a laugh.  "Well, what do you think?  Either you hide away in Australia, or you get an abortion."

She put her hands to her forehead.  "But it's your child!  We could--get married.  It's still early enough."

Adam shook his head and backed away.  "No way. I'm not ready for that!  We're in high school, for crying out loud!"

"I know.  I know!"  She huffed out a breath.  "I never thought this would happen.  It would kill my dad!  You know him."

Adam smirked.  "Yeah. Mr. Preach-to-all-the-world-yet-neglect-his-daughter.  He deserves the humiliation."

Greta's eyebrows knit together.  "But--isn't abortion murder?"

"You swallow that lie from your father?"

Greta turned and looked at the floor, its grime glaring in the round circle of flashlight.  "He might be right about some things."

Adam put a hand on her shoulder gently.  "Greta.  He's a hypocrite.  I'm sorry to say it, but he is.  How could he be right when he's so wrong about so much?"

Greta bit her lip.  Her father did advocate being a loving parent, leading the home in righteousness.  He never seemed to have time to live out his words.  Television crews and huge crowds  flocked to him, and he drank it up.  He only had one child, yet he didn't even take an interest in her beyond asking how her week was or what she was studying in school, and that while he was surfing the internet or reading a book.

She sniffled and blinked away tears.  "Maybe you're right."

~~~

Becky pulled her crocheted cardigan on and hummed a line of Handel's Messiah.  The sky was cloudy gray, but there was one little pocket of sky where the sun shone through.

May Your light shine, oh, God, she prayed.  May there be someone saved from darkness today, and some little lives kept.

The tea kettle whistled shrilly.  She poured a mug, stirring in honey, then letting the tea bag steep for a minute while she chomped down a banana.  She carried the cup to her mom.  "I'm about ready to leave.  Pray for us.  Love you."

Her mom smiled.  "Thank you, honey.  I love you, too.  I'll be praying."

Becky nodded, then paused with her hand on the door-frame.  "I'll be praying for you, too.  Hope your doctor's visit goes well."

"I'm sure it will.  It's just a check-up."

Becky drove her car to her friends' house.  Mrs. Harper was in the van waiting.  Becky hopped in the van and was greeted warmly.

"Peyton is running late, as you can see," Mrs. Harper said with a grin.  "I think that girl would be late to a baseball game, and you know how much she loves those! . . . Wait, she has been late for one."

Becky smiled.  "The main thing is she's coming.  I'm so glad you could both make it! Thank you for taking me."

A minute went by before Peyton came jogging out, a bagel in one hand, a satchel on her shoulder, and a Bible in her other hand.

~~~

Does anyone care about me?  Do you care, God?

Greta gripped her purse strap tightly, feeling metal dig her skin.  She swallowed and gazed at the abortion clinic through a clump of tall bushes.  Women, some weeping, some with head held high, were ushered into the clinic through the big gates.  They were greeted with smiles, but the workers seemed in a hurry.  Outside the gate, there were a few sign-clad people, and some shouting, some praying.

Other women came out of the clinic, looking broken.  Was that what she would look like when she came out?  If her nerves were any indication, it was more than likely.

Adam seemed to think it would be easy, that it was the only option.  But they didn't have to operate on him.

She wiped her face, making up her mind.  She turned, hopped in her car, and revved the engine.

Then she saw a similar building across the street and a little farther down.  The sign had a stylized drawing of a mother and baby on it, and read Hopeful Care.  The name might have sounded cheesy to her at another time, but right now . . . Hopeful Care sounded . . . hopeful.

She parked, looked at the small, flagstone building, and got out.

No one was there to hurry her in like a fugitive.

Inside, a brunette in her thirties looked up with a smile.  "Hello, there!  Welcome to Hopeful Care.  I'm Lindsay. Have a seat, please.  What's your name?"

Greta sat down, glad to rest her jelly-like legs, then ventured, "I'm Greta.  What is this place?"

"Well, Greta, we're here to help troubled women who are pregnant, giving other options besides abortion."

"Options?"

"Yes.  We can give you an ultrasound, first off, to see if you really are pregnant.  Then we discuss the options of keeping the child, giving him up for adoption--"

Greta bit her lip and looked away.  "But what--what would I do in the meantime?" she murmured.

Lindsay reached a hand out to squeeze Greta's hand.  "We'll talk about that, too.  Let me introduce you to some other ladies."

Greta squared her shoulders and followed Lindsay down a hallway and into the first door on the left.

Two girls about her age and a gray-haired woman were in the midst of filling plastic bags with diapers.  They looked up.

"Greta, meet Mrs. Harper, Peyton Harper, and Becky Murray.  Becky's been here for a few months, but the other two are new."

~~~

Becky smiled at Greta, noticing the tightly crossed arms, the trembling lips.  "Hello, Greta.  I'm glad to see you." Becky looked at her two friends.  "I think Greta and I will get acquainted, and you can continue packing for now.  Right this way, Greta."

"Are you going to give me a test?" Greta asked.  "Because I already took one, and it was positive."

"Yes, but they can sometimes be wrong.  Rarely, but it's standard procedure to check, and give you a chance to look for yourself."

"Look?  At the fetus?"

"Yes, the unborn baby."

Greta shook her head.  "I really think--well, my boyfriend thinks I should get an abortion.  It would be easier . . ."

Becky's eyebrows pinched together in sorrow.  "It may seem so, Greta, but . . . there are scars from things like that.  Deep, heart scars."

"How would you know?  Have you had an abortion?"  It was tossed out impertinently, but there was something fragile in Greta's eyes that Becky caught.

"No," Becky answered softly.  "But I have a friend who did."  Becky rubbed the chain to her silver heart-shaped locket.  "The pain went so deep she--wanted to kill herself."

Greta froze, then cleared her throat.  "What happened?"

"She tried it, but her parents stopped her before she could finish the job."  Becky's voice trembled a bit, but there was a peaceful smile on her lips.  "And Someone else stopped her, too.  God took hold of her and made her see that there is forgiveness in Him.  There is life.  But there was no going back.  She still regrets her decision to kill her own baby."

Greta pressed her lips together and blinked.  "But how could I take people--looking at me?  My dad . . . everyone.  If God forgives, it can't be so bad to--you know.  Most people don't even think a fetus is a baby yet."

Becky swallowed, adjusting her thoughts into words.  Talking didn't always come easily to her.  "It is a baby--we'll show you pictures of a  baby's growth and functions.  And thus, it is wrong to kill an unborn life.  God forgives, yes, but that is no reason to sin."  Becky prayed a three-second prayer for help and for Greta's heart.  "Think of the horrible price Jesus paid on the cross.  Sin is very serious to God!"

Greta squirmed and sighed deeply.  "Okay, then.  Give me the test."

~~~

Greta shut the door behind her, then clenched her jaw.  Her father was sitting at the couch near the door, and he looked up from his Bible only briefly.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hello, sweetheart."  He looked back down and scribbled something in his study notebook.

All veneer, no solids.  Greta would take the rough-and-tumble, not-word-perfect, yet heartfelt dad any day.  Would he even care about anything but his own reputation if she told him that she was pregnant?

"Did you have a good day?"  His words were said nearly every day, like a ritual.

Greta decided to be honest and see if he noticed.  "Just horrible."

"That's good," he mumbled, buried deep in his writing.

Greta rolled her eyes and hurried to her room.  She plopped her leather purse on her bed, then quickly took out a folded paper.  Her fingers trembled, wanting yet not wanting to unfold it.  She swallowed once, twice, then flipped the paper open.

Just as she had seen at Hopeful Care.  Black and white and a bit fuzzy, but there was a hand, a head, and the cutest little nose.  A sob rose in her chest.  She felt like vomiting.  This little person she had thought of putting an end to--why, it was murder, wasn't it?  Dad or no dad.  Perhaps he didn't even mean the words, just said them to sound good . . . but he was right.

~~~

To Be Continued . . .