Apparently this was it: the prison’s law library. One row of ancient books on a rickety cart. Was that smell despair or just mildew? Probably mildew. The stink of despair was coming from—as they say—inside the house.
Did they still call it the Big House? Or was that passé? She much preferred that to slammer or joint. Big House sounded almost genteel. She pictured herself dismounting a sleek black stallion. Handing the reigns to the stable boy. Shaking her hair out and coyly declaring, “I’m headed up to the Big House for a drink. Join me. Won’t you.”
Her daydream was abruptly shut down by the guard’s rough shove. “If ya want somethin’ take it. I aint got all day.”
“Give me one moment please.” She knew her tone irritated the hillbilly guard, but she had spent years smoothing out the rough edges of her accent. If, no—not if—WHEN she got out, she had to fit in with the “right” people. One failed attempt wasn’t going to stop her. She had big plans.
She shook the image of his body from her mind. No time for that. She smiled as she selected a book. Comeback time.
Photo Credit Morguefile
Thanks to Sunday Photo Fiction for the photo inspiration for this 200 word piece of flash fiction. Visit the site for some great writing and the rules of the game.
Tina Stewart Brakebill 