Dead and Buried
She'd bury him after thirty seven years of marriage. The arguments were small, rarely knotted together. Alice has been twenty for a week when she married Fen. Looking back it seemed unlikely that anything akin to experience had produced such a fine fit. The relationship had started simply, continued simply, and now... well, this part was less simple. There was little she could do about putting him in the yard properly, with a stone - so she had dug a small ditch, quietly in the cool June night, just behind the weeping cherry tree that marked the edge of their property. She worked quietly, methodically, soil out - stones to the side, soil out, stones to the side. All was quiet until she unhitched the hasp on the plywood box she’d screwed together in the garage. The dog began to bark. "Pickles! Pickles!" Alice gave the schnauzer a shove with a soiled garden sneaker. "He's dead! He won't play now! No, stop it!" She wept. Fen f