And Then He Was Gone

The sun was shining brightly on the hills of Ireland. There was a smell of fresh tilled earth upon the air, and soapsuds. Mary O'Conner, twenty four years old, watched her two year old son, Brian, as he played in the washbucket. She laughed a little as she saw him take a dive into the soapy water.

 

She looked back to the shirt which her idle hands were no longer washing. It was her husbands, Sam. She smiled when she thought of him, his white smile, his curly blonde hair that stuck out in all directions, no matter how hard she tried to comb it down. He was out in the south field today, plowing with the borrowed work horse. Her heart raced in anticipation. She couldn't wait to tell him the news she was sure of now. She imagined his face as she told him of the child growing inside her. He would smile that beautiful smile and laugh lines would decorate his blue eyes.

 

She finished the washing, then began the cleaning of the small cottage which they called home. There was not much in it, for they were not a rich family, but a happy one. A traveling chest sat in the corner, a wedding gift from Sam's mother. On top of it sat the beautiful kerosene lamp that lit up the cottage at night. It was the only thing of real worth that they owned. She smiled, they were not rich, but they had everything they needed to be happy.

 

Something nagged at her though. It seemed that whenever things got too good in life, something happened to ruin it. She tried to push the thought out of her mind, but as the afternoon wore on, it seemed to grow. It soon overshadowed the cabin, or was it the rain clouds that were fast headed towards the moor?

 

Soon it began to rain, lightly at first, but eventually became a torrential downpour. It was soon time for Sam to come home. She lit the kerosene lamp and it cast is beautiful sharded light all throughout the cottage. She sat on the old rocking chair, her mother's, and held Brian on her lap, waiting. Time seemed to stop. Where was he?

 

Suddenly she heard the sharp clip of a horse approaching the cottage, up the garden path where the magnolias grew. It was a light trotting, not the heavy lumbering of the plow horse Sam had borrowed. Mary's heart began to beat like a drum, beating its way out of her chest. She held Brian tight to her, so tight he began to whimper.

 

A knock on the door now, she rose slowly and opened it. In the doorway stood Chantry Williamson, the Englishman who owned all the land that the O'Conners farmed. He had his hat in his hand, an expensive one.

 

Mary took on short look at his face and knew something terrible had happened.

 

"Mrs. O'Conner," he started, "I' m not sure how to tell you this. It happened so fast I don't know... Well, its your husband, Sam." With a cry, Mary sank down on the rocker, still holding Brian. Williamson continued. "Well, he was plowing the south feild today. When it started to rain, he wanted to make sure he finished the feild, and well, he slipped in the mud, and old Bessie stepped on him..." He paused and took a breath as Mary pressed her hand to her mouth, as if willing the next words to remain unspoken. "He died just an hour ago."

 

Mary nodded, stood up and pictured Sam's face, and fell to the ground, a black darkness engulfing her.

Author's Note

Don't worry about the plot, just tell me what you think of the writing style please.

Reviews

[Claire Twinn]

Your style is smooth and flowing, with enough description to interest and engage, without boring the reader.