This is a flash fiction piece I wrote at the last Atlanta Writer’s Club meeting that I attended. The guest speaker encouraged us to take five minutes and write a paragraph based off of the prompt: How it feels to be widowed at 35. We were then asked if any of us wanted to share. I heard many sweet, sentimental stories of grief. Mine was not one of them. Though I was completely apprehensive, I finally stood up to share my story with the class (club). To my surprise, I got a round of applause and some really kind compliments. It reminded me that it is more than okay to think outside of the prompt and keep on being a little crazy.
The Wishful Widow by Caroline Cole
God, I’m glad he’s dead. The bruises, with their vivid shades of violet and blackening undertones, will no longer be excused with a vague answer about spraying myself in the face with a pressure washer or falling into a light switch. Did I want to have to slice my husband’s throat with an honestly dull kitchen knife? A death that would have been a lot less painful had he let me register for the much sharper, yet slightly more expensive ones? No. Was it ideal for me to kill my children’s father while they were in the other room, snuggled with teddies, watching cartoons? Of course not. Really, how could I want to put the nail in my own betrothed’s coffin when we are both only 35? I didn’t. But it was not a matter of want, it was a matter of need. It’s hard to accept that our years together, our time to grow old, is gone. But now, my future has been found, and my time with myself and my children is all the more bright.