Eclectic Author Dead in Skydiving Accident

Six names, seven decades, no husbands, one adopted child, and nine dogs deep into life, author S. A. Crawford (the least known but most truthful name she went by in print) is dead at seventy-eight years old after a freak skydiving accident that also claimed the life of one battered and front-coverless copy of Walden: or Life in the Woods by David Henry Thoreau. Sources say she was still trying to finish the slim but arduous volume, which she bought in her twenties, on the day of her death because, and I quote,

'Mama raised a bitch, but not a quitter'

S. A. Crawford

Though literary challenged when it came to reading the greats of naturalist philosophy, she wrote like a devil on speed (source: a long-term friend of the author who chose to remain nameless because 'its what she would have wanted). So much so, in fact that we are only now finding all of the works that can be attributed to her. With a pen-name for horror fiction, dark fantasy, dark comedy, sci-fi horror (are you seeing a theme here?) and of course her own name for literary works (also dark, generally about cannibalism and murder, for some reason), she spread her mind wide. Apparently there was also a foray to... spicy self-published works, but that remains to be verified.

Considering the extensive collection of works now attributed to this author, she lived a private life by all accounts, adopting elderly dogs, gardening, and occasionally visiting a rage room or two to 'get a healthy dose of adrenaline' before writing horrors previously untold.

Often called a misandrist by those who misunderstood the term 'main character' to mean 'morally pure' she maintained;

"I support women's rights, but also women's wrongs. Why shouldn't female characters be horrible, nefarious bastards?"

S. A. Crawford

Acquaintances remember her for her joie de vivre, but friends, loved ones (and one bartender she saw more often than her doctor) say that she most certainly didn't involve herself in that nonsense, instead indulging in healthy doses of mania, far flung hope, ever likely pessimism, and the work ethic of a working class millennial who never actually figured out that she'd somehow made it out of the danger zone.

To some a creative, to others an NPC... and to the man who scraped her off the tarmac, a puzzle.

"What I don't understand is how her false teeth ended up in a tree. Did she take them out mid fall?"

Gerry, 43, Groundsman

At the end of the day, she left behind a library of sorts, or a scavenger hunt; a winding walk through seven decades of obsessi0n with the frailty of the human mind and body written small and large in stories that rarely pretended to be anything more than what they were; gross, gory, and fun.