Scarlett’s got a gun. Moves on alcohol-soft legs through a glass room, louring shadows, candlestick-high. Feels no pain, plant-pot rammed, skittering away broken-sharded.
Scarlett’s got a gun, those bitches don’t even know it, heads together, bending peacock feathers, white skin blaring in the candlelight.
Scarlett’s got a gun tight-strapped to her milk-thighs that are blood-scratched, purple-bruised, angry-marching through the rooms, looking for them, looking for them.
Scarlett’s got a gun, feels the itch of it wanting to be free, to be fired. Stumbles on, stumbles in to the thock-thock-thock of a white ball, coloured balls, bang into pockets, starburst-loud, lolling men, leering men, faces swoon-close, voices thunder-boom.
Scarlett’s got a gun and she’s pea-green, puke-wracked, double-bent, mustard-vomit reeling. That face – that face leaning in to hers, over hers; trigger in her brain.
Scarlett’s got a gun and she’s revenge-ready, looking for him, looking for him. Then.
Scarlett’s got a gun, and she points it: drunk-straight, plumb-line, laser-eyed, heart-seeking, bang.
Fiona McKay lives and writes beside the sea in Dublin, Ireland. Words now or soon in Blinkpot, 50wordstories, FlashFlood Journal, 5minutelit, Sledgehammer Lit, Funny Pearls, Tl;dr Anthology, Reflex Fiction, Cranked Anvil Anthology. Tweets at @fionaemckayryan.