At the Inkslingers Workshop on Saturday we tried visual prompts. The girl who runs it showed us three photos, and asked us to pick one and write for 15 minutes about it. The photo on the right is the one that I chose, and the words below are the ones that I wrote….
He’d said he had to work late.
The dumbass fool, he thought she wouldn’t be able to hear the clink of glasses, the crack of pool-balls, the whine of Achy Breaky Heart coming from the juke-box behind him.
He wasn’t working late. He was in Jethro’s Bar again.
He’d be home around eleven, driving erratically up the dirt-track and into their yard, pulling to a halt in a spray of dirt in front of the porch, probably on top of her petunias again.
He’d make some excuse, that he’d been working with Bill-Joe, or Jeb-Bob, or Jake-Chuck, or some other dumbass double-barrelled names, and that they’d just gone for the one afterwards.
No-one gets that drunk on just one beer. She could drink three-quarters of a bottle of Jack Daniels and not get drunk. In fact she’d done it just now.
Which was why, instead of the traditional rolling-pin, she was awaiting him with the rifle he used to shoot deer, or at them at any rate.
She wasn’t going to kill him, because she was a God-fearin’ Tennessee woman. But he was her man and had done her wrong, so she was gonna wound him, somewhere it would hurt.
That was why she’d put the telescopic-sight on the rifle. She didn’t reckon she had a very big target to aim at.