The following is a short piece from a work in progress. This is a scene I pulled from my next novel and (hopefully) turned it into a short story.
By Beem Weeks
There might’ve been a dream. Or maybe not. Violet Glass really couldn’t recall. Probably, though. A dream concerning some stupid boy—or even a girl.
Can’t control what creeps through your sleep.
Her body stirred awake as the blackest part of night splashed its inky resolve across that part of Alabama.
Violet stared at the ceiling, tried like the dickens to recall a face, perhaps a voice—anything belonging to the one responsible for this latest agitation.
Nothing came through, though.
Even dead of night did little to lay low that sticky heat. Old-timers in town swore oaths affirming this, the summer of 1910, to be more oppressive than any other summer since before the war…
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