this is today’s Friday Fictioneers submission. Like Rochelle, I’ve gone for a Deep South theme but, being a Brit, I felt I couldn’t allow myself a shot at aping the vernacular so I’ve kept the prose quite neutral. I’ve also shifted forward a half century or so. Thanks to Rochelle for the photo.
(By the way, this is wY over the 100 words. There was a shorter version, still over the limit, but it was lost to auto-refresh).
The neighbourhood’s changed since they built the mall. Now, hers is the only neo-colonial terrace remaining. The neighbours, working poor mainly, tolerate her but there’s no warmth in their clenched-teeth greetings. And still she stays, every night keeping vigil from the veranda.
She can see the tree from here, the one Jeff Farrell’s men hanged him from. Even now, she tells herself it was only self-preservation; it never works. It was a different time then and it was easier, when her best friend’s husband asked her if his wife had been unfaithful, to lie and say she’d been consorting with Reuben Thomas, rather than tell the truth and admit that it was her own bed that was still warm from where Rebecca Farrell had left it.