Southern Comfort

I wrote this to the photo prompt below for the Flash! Friday challenge a few weeks ago, and since I can think of so little to write these days it seems a shame to waste it, even if it got nowhere…

Scarlett in Hill O'Tara

Time had not smiled on Scarlett O’Hara. It had laughed at her.

After Rhett left she had taken solace in wine, comfort food and passing sailors. She had grown heavier, stockier, and chins.

In order to live she had re-built Tara as The Hill O’ Tara, the type of Irish bar that wears shillelaghs, Leprechaun hats and inflatable shamrocks like gaudy jewellery, essentially Riverdance set to whiskey.

Since the war ended Atlanta had become a popular stag-party venue with visitors from the North. Many came to The Hill O’ Tara, keen to see the living definition of the term “buxom”.

One such group had just arrived and had loudly demanded her strongest beer, so she was bringing them eleven mugs of Frankly Damn, a foaming, practically steaming concoction that was eleven per cent proof and eighty-nine per cent gas.

A couple of those each, she reckoned, and they’d be gone. With the wind.


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