2016Bluestone

or purple or green. The only color in the cemetery comes from the crimson leaves that fall from gray trees. The leaves are the same color as my red blanket that I keep draped over my arm as I follow Mama to the farthest end of the cemetery. When Mama stops, she takes the precious blan- ket from my arms. Mama kneels in front of the headstone. In bold letters it says, Molly Christina Henry, June 3rd, 2000-October 31st, 2005. A sweet soul gone too soon. I can’t find the right words to say as Mama drapes the crim- son red blanket over the cold headstone. The lovingly-made cloth envelopes the weary rock in warmth. Scrawny trees sway in the howling wind. Crimson leaves flutter helplessly on the grass. My throat closes when I try to plea for help. My body fades like a smothering candle that has reached the end of its wick. An October breeze carries my alabaster ashes into oblivion. Nothing is left behind except for two little foot- prints in the dirt. Mama visits the next sad stone, the one that says Anna Grace Henry, October 4th, 2005-October 31st, 2010.

Jara Armstrong is a junior majoring in English Education at Bluefield College. She wrote this short story for the Terrifying Tales contest in October. Her hobbies include writing, reading, watching Netflix, playing with her dogs, and eating chicken.

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