The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

To Rot
by Elizabeth H. Smith

Decay feeds the soil so what’s above may flourish. The rot and congealing innards of the dead give birth to new life. It’s the cycle demanded by nature and forced upon all who are born, and so eventually, we must die.

This is what Ed told himself while he admired his temple of gourds. He’d been adding to the pile since the beginning of fall. It was his favorite season, and he was never one to turn down a luscious gourd at any farm stand he might come across. He purchased them by the box-full.

When he got home, he carried them each one by one to the lush, grassy yard behind his house. He’d place them with care onto the rising tower his collection had become and take photos from different angles and distances. At night he stared at his bedroom wall, where his favorite shots were hung, always in chronological order of when they were taken. This was his routine.

Although it was only November, he feared next year’s summer. Surely the heat would spoil his creation. He dreaded the thought of only having the photos to gaze upon in honor of what he’d done. Of all the things he did in life, of this he was most proud.

It was his final hurrah, the last item to check off his bucket list; he could finally live in peace. But his newfound serenity was dependent on the gourds. If they went foul, so would he. They were his source of strength and solace, the daily reminder that what’s done is done. The act he committed could not be reversed—it was eternally final.

When winter came and cast its icy chill upon the sky, Ed admired his gourds from the window. He watched them all season, through the ice, snow, and eventual melt. During those cold months he thought more and more about the rot that was to come when the gourds thawed and allowed nature to reclaim them. His shrine would be putrefied and that would be it.

Although there was no regret for anything he did, he realized there was nothing to look forward to either. The deed had been done, and could not be done again. The thrill tapered off and left him feeling as empty as the days before he built his monument of gourds. When Lyla was still around, invading his existence.

So when spring came, he lay upon his memorial, put a pistol to his head, and joined the decay that was to come.

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Fiction © Copyright Elizabeth H. Smith
Image courtesy of Pixabay

More About Elizabeth H. Smith:
Elizabeth H. Smith is a storyteller who writes while trying to keep her cat, Luna off the keyboard. The musical group, Rasputina is her muse. She was born in the state of New York and would never feel at home anywhere else.