Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Anna-Marie -- Part Three -- Then We Become Dirt

It's now 1874. I realize I'm a grand mother, but I still feel like a kid. It seemed like every other woman my age is studying to become a school teacher, and my daughter is still in high school. After a point they started requiring schooling for both genders, so I spend less of my time with my daughter and grand-kids. In theory I could still date, but it's difficult to find someone my age who wants to fool with someone completely washed up. At fifty two, you've seen almost half a century, and this can involve significantly more than you might then. I've heard many people don't live past the age of sixty seven, so I don't have much longer left to live. I could get back into activism, but that means not spending any time with my grand kids.

I've heard that there was a communist party, although whether that's true is not something that I know for certain. And what they may call communist here may not reflect European communism, do to diverging world views. And whether they would welcome a woman who murdered almost her entire familla. I haven't even told my husband about it. Though I suppose him knowing that I helped to contribute to the Paris Commune, he might be more willing to forgive than most people. When you're young, you tend to think irrationally, especially when you're in a fit of panic. Or at least, when you're very drunk and bottomless on a dirt road in the black forest.

Sometimes my mind goes back there.

When you're riding a horse, generally you want to hold onto the saddle as long as you can, but eventually they finally manage to invent the stirrup. It always stirs me up not being used to having to grip as tightly, so I often upset my horses whom don't like being gripped to hard by a tight rope. It's not that I particularly like strangling horses or anything, but it's something that took a considerable amount of time to get used to.

The black forest was dark and gloomy, much different from the constant glow of oil lamp lights. But sometimes I miss the flow of shadows on the wall of my old French cottage. Sometimes I have nightmares of going back to my family home, and reliving the memories of watching my brothers slowly die from the poison that I had slipped into their bread. My husband noticed this penchant as well. Not to make any excuses or anything, but it so easy to accidentally poison someone. Back then there was anything remotely resembling what they call health codes, so sometimes some woman may have her head chopped off simply for accidentally dropping the dough on the floor, and watching it off to remove the bits of hair clumps and dirt.

All that nonsense, and in reward a blood squirt.

Then we all fall down and become dirt.

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 6:13 PM