The wood sliced for these names had darkened with age so it paled against the bark like the dessicated flesh of a yellow fruit. She ran a finger along the fretted letters, her eyebrows drew together and filled with a stern feeling, she wished suddenly that not a single one of them had ever been born to fit a blade in their hand to make vain impermanent markings on living things.
From All the Living by C.E. Morgan, a novel that sucked me in for its 199 perfect pages of lonely souls and Kentucky farmland and difficult love, and still hasn’t let me go.
Thank you for the sensible critique. Me & my neighbor were just preparing to do a little research on this. We got a grab a book from our local library but I think I learned more clear from this post. I’m very glad to see such wonderful information being shared freely out there.