When you’re around, I fight with words.
“Shut it, tramp! Keep on walkin’!”
When you’re watching, I’m in control. Queen frickin’ Bee.
You tell me where you go, when you’re going.
Or else this shit
Fists fly first.
You never told me skulls split ripe like plums.
I wrote this little story last night over a glass of red, while I was waiting for my chicken casserole to finish off in the oven. I’m entering it in the Scottish Book Trust’s 50 Word Fiction Competition. The theme for March is ‘crime scene’ and since I’m working on a YA novel, my head is perpetually stuck in teen-land.
When you hear the words ‘crime scene’, what pops into your head? That yellow ‘do not cross’ tape? Flashing lights? Or something more sinister?
Image by Nick Frank on Behance.