I've begun to notice I have a very dark side when I write fiction. Go figure.
The chill in Eamon’s bones came not from the
Illinois winter, but
from the vision he glimpsed of his future. Stoking the fire, he dared not look
at the newborn for fear of his emotions: love, hate, fear.
Dirt fell from the shovel onto the planked wooden floor. Tears blurred his vision as he remembered how Abigail would scold him for not cleaning it outdoors. Tomorrow he would write the letter to her family, but tonight he needed to think.
Turning up the oil lamp, the words on her sampler became clear “In God We Trust.”
Lord, give me strength.