The Bride by Georgia Cook

His boots were slick with mud, his fingers frozen to the bone. He could no longer feel the shovel in his hand, nor the rain driving down across the graveyard. All he knew was the dirt, and the cold, and each pounding, sliding shovelful.

He struck something solid. Something lying exposed in the earth. He fell to his knees and dug deeper, his fingers scrabbling, bleeding. Fistfuls of mud.

Until at last her coffin lay open beneath him:

Empty.

A finger, long and pale, reached down from above to caress his cheek.

“Darling.” whispered a voice, bone soft, from the darkness.

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#FLASHFICTION101 October 2020 SHORTLISTED ENTRY

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