| General Fiction posted June 19, 2022 |
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A Tale From Fanny's Grand-Nephew
The Rock of Mich-uk-isaw
by Jay Squires
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
It 'as me what chucked thet stone through his winder. I’d do it agin. The truth!
Betcha nobody's guessin' 'twas over a girl.
’Twas, though, but not jes' any girl...
Sarah Scranton—thet’s who: Three weeks in Mich-úk-isaw. Livin’ with her gran’ma… next to my house. Terr'ble shy, Sarah was.
'Spect I’s her only friend.
Ever senior girl evil-eyed Sarah. But I tell ya—most ever guy felt Sarah unnerneath his bedsheets... in his nighttime imaginin’s… if’n you know what I mean.
But those midnight bullets ne’er hit the target they’s aimin’ at.
Well... 'ceptin' one.
Whole lotta spek’lashun. Hell’s Bells! Sarah waited... but nobody stepped up.
Story’s old as mud an’ Cider-Crick baptisin’ ’round these Mississippi parts. Even now, in the 60s, with change everwhere, Mich-úk-isaw (what’s Chickasaw fer “I ain’t a-budgin’”), was a boulder in a river o’ change.
Another unchangin’ boulder was Mich-úk-isaw Baptist Church. Sarah was new there—her’n her gran’ma in the back pew, account o’ Sarah needin’ the restroom, nearby. Me—I's ’crost the aisle, prayin', "why?"
Din’t surprise nobody how shortly after Sarah'd started to show, Pastor Timothy Dowdy paid her gran’ma an evenin’ visit.
From then on, rumors spread like maggots a-toppa shit.
~~~
The night of the followin’ Sunday, I’s crouchin’ aside my Studebaker, browsin’ fer thet perfect chuckin’ stone whilst my thumb’s twirlin’ thet circle o’ woven yarn on my next-to-pinky finger.
I glance back at the night-glazed car winder, crazy-grinnin’ t'ward a face prob'ly smilin’ back, ahind thet glaze.
250 Word Flash Fiction contest entry
It 'as me what chucked thet stone through his winder. I’d do it agin. The truth!
Betcha nobody's guessin' 'twas over a girl.
’Twas, though, but not jes' any girl...
Sarah Scranton—thet’s who: Three weeks in Mich-úk-isaw. Livin’ with her gran’ma… next to my house. Terr'ble shy, Sarah was.
'Spect I’s her only friend.
Ever senior girl evil-eyed Sarah. But I tell ya—most ever guy felt Sarah unnerneath his bedsheets... in his nighttime imaginin’s… if’n you know what I mean.
But those midnight bullets ne’er hit the target they’s aimin’ at.
Well... 'ceptin' one.
Whole lotta spek’lashun. Hell’s Bells! Sarah waited... but nobody stepped up.
Story’s old as mud an’ Cider-Crick baptisin’ ’round these Mississippi parts. Even now, in the 60s, with change everwhere, Mich-úk-isaw (what’s Chickasaw fer “I ain’t a-budgin’”), was a boulder in a river o’ change.
Another unchangin’ boulder was Mich-úk-isaw Baptist Church. Sarah was new there—her’n her gran’ma in the back pew, account o’ Sarah needin’ the restroom, nearby. Me—I's ’crost the aisle, prayin', "why?"
Din’t surprise nobody how shortly after Sarah'd started to show, Pastor Timothy Dowdy paid her gran’ma an evenin’ visit.
From then on, rumors spread like maggots a-toppa shit.
Betcha nobody's guessin' 'twas over a girl.
’Twas, though, but not jes' any girl...
Sarah Scranton—thet’s who: Three weeks in Mich-úk-isaw. Livin’ with her gran’ma… next to my house. Terr'ble shy, Sarah was.
'Spect I’s her only friend.
Ever senior girl evil-eyed Sarah. But I tell ya—most ever guy felt Sarah unnerneath his bedsheets... in his nighttime imaginin’s… if’n you know what I mean.
But those midnight bullets ne’er hit the target they’s aimin’ at.
Well... 'ceptin' one.
Whole lotta spek’lashun. Hell’s Bells! Sarah waited... but nobody stepped up.
Story’s old as mud an’ Cider-Crick baptisin’ ’round these Mississippi parts. Even now, in the 60s, with change everwhere, Mich-úk-isaw (what’s Chickasaw fer “I ain’t a-budgin’”), was a boulder in a river o’ change.
Another unchangin’ boulder was Mich-úk-isaw Baptist Church. Sarah was new there—her’n her gran’ma in the back pew, account o’ Sarah needin’ the restroom, nearby. Me—I's ’crost the aisle, prayin', "why?"
Din’t surprise nobody how shortly after Sarah'd started to show, Pastor Timothy Dowdy paid her gran’ma an evenin’ visit.
From then on, rumors spread like maggots a-toppa shit.
~~~
The night of the followin’ Sunday, I’s crouchin’ aside my Studebaker, browsin’ fer thet perfect chuckin’ stone whilst my thumb’s twirlin’ thet circle o’ woven yarn on my next-to-pinky finger.
I glance back at the night-glazed car winder, crazy-grinnin’ t'ward a face prob'ly smilin’ back, ahind thet glaze.
 Recognized |
#23 June 2022 |
250 words as shown by Microsoft Word. I confirmed that number by my own hand count.
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