Quietly hanging in the back of the shed was a rope with 13 knots he had crafted for his head.
An old red shed, covered in tarps, with boards for walls and dented paint cans for art. Clothed in snails and webs, scorpions and death, there hung his faithful friend, an escape to wondrous end.
Often he contemplated he might have the courage to try, to hang himself from the noose crafted in the red shed where he hoped to die. Cloaked in sadness and consumed in grief, there hung his wife. Eyes wide, tears dried. She hung there, hopeless in sight.
For she could not bear to find him one day in the red shed barn hanging in a deathly sway.
So she took her life, in the stillness of night, afraid to jump, yet fearless in fright.
She stood on the chair, tip-toed in the air, wrapped the noose around her neck and jumped to a glorious and painful death.
Till this day some claim to see her face. He cut, chopped, and scattered her all around that place. So he might keep her always near and be reminded of lovelier years.
Some many years later, when their children were grown, the old man hung himself, hanging all alone. Now in darkness, only the few can see, the little brown woman and her bearded man in the trees.