by Holly Day
Read by Eve
The poisoner moved into the village soon after the doctor had died. For weeks, she had been dropping crushed narcissus bulbs into the doctors’ drinking well in the dead of night, not so much that it’d kill him right away, but enough that he wouldn’t have to wait too long to die. The doctor’s wife followed soon after, her unborn child spilling out on the stone pavers, brought out too early by contractions caused by the poison.
The poisoner came down into the village the very next day, dressed in a white nurse outfit, her clothes paradoxically spotless considering that no one had anything spotless to wear, not anymore. The war had made everyone a dirty wreck, and the impossibly white clothes of the poisoner made her seem a legitimate miracle, some sort of savior coming down from the hills. They would soon find that no matter how bloody she got, her uniform would always be clean and white.
About the Author
From her website:
I’ve been writing professionally for 24 years, with over 7,000 articles, poems, and short stories published, and 15 nonfiction books in print. Over the years, I’ve been in contact with some young and beginning writers that seem to believe that they’d already screwed themselves out of becoming “real” writers because of some of the choices that they’ve made. Hence, the impetus for this blog: to showcase all my own stupid mistakes that still somehow led me to being the professional writer, educator, wife and mother I am today. It’s not about connections, or education, or who your family happens to be–all you really need to be a writer is bloody-knuckled persistence. Oh, yeah, and the Armageddon blog is about all the stupid little things I do when I’m not writing.