Back in June 2016, I started a new "series" of posts... if you will... 
 And so on Wednesdays; I've been posting an old photograph to inspire your creativity.
Write a poem!   
 Plot out a short story.
 Have inspiration for a piece of art or composition.... let your artistic soul shine.
--and occasionally I write my own sordid story or poem. 
 (you can click on the photos in this post to make it larger to see).


She was a fright.
She was a force.
She was the devil in a print floral dress, and not in a good way;
...not in any way you'd want.

It's not that she was horrid to look at... no.
In fact, she was probably a very beautiful woman at one point.
But Miss Nell was no longer a woman folks would gaze at wistfully.
In fact, folks tended to not even want to make eye contact with her;
for fear of her wrath being leashed upon them.

Her full name, was Anelia "Nell" Charlotte Trotwood,
and her heart had been turned to stone along time ago.
There were rumors of a young love, torn from her because of war...
 but no one knew for certain. No one dared ask.
She had no family... and yet, everyone was her 'business.'
Whether it be who was on the school board, who was running for office, who the local minister was visiting... right down to little Billy Neilson who took out the trash for his grandparents. Everything was under her steady gaze and microscopic scrutiny.
She fussed over what the stores displayed in the windows. What the newspapers printed.
Who the ambulance was called for. Whose dog was running loose... and whose car was parked at the bar last night.
She criticized everyone with equal abandon. No one was safe.
Least of all, herself.
Because, unbeknownst to everyone else... she was, in fact, hardest on herself.
Those thick stockings and long dresses she insisted on wearing all the time? They covered self inflicted scars.
Her endless array of hats served merely to cover where she had pulled out her hair in fits of loathing.
Only her precious cat, Minx, knew of her suffering.
And when she was found quite still in her bed at the age of 93,
it was Minx who laid upon her chest... never moving... never screeching... with eyes full of sadness.