A Dish Served Cold

It’s a small town, so by and by it got back to her.

She didn’t get mad. That wasn’t her way.

Instead she bided her time, innocent as a yellow chick shaking off eggshells. She had this way of asking without asking, sort of letting whoever she was talking to just say what came to mind, all the while leading them along without them knowing.

In the end she had the whole story, knew who said what to whom.

It was more than clever, how she used the information to get even. In the end, she made them sorry, every last one.

I don’t think the dumber ones ever figured out why their lives  took such a bad turn, but some of them bitches knew. Those girls said she was a sort of dark priestess or voodoo queen.

I don’t know. Maybe she was.


Sunday Photo Fiction