I felt a gentle shove towards the front of the church, an indication I was to move with the mourning crowd. I pressed back against the forward motion, knowing the seats saved were for family, those marching in two by two. The hand's voice read my mind saying, "You're family, go." But I wasn't, not in the blood or marital sense, but the voice rang true-- I was.
The Writing huntress
I hunt. I write. I wear what some consider an unnecessary amount of camouflage face paint.