Can I Get A Witness?

Somebody, somewhere; tell me this ain’t fair but it seems to me that what you write in a song has a nasty way of turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Take it from me, Kurt Cobain did have a gun – denying it even as he sang Come As You Are. Amy? Well… Rehab was just waiting with open doors.

I sat there, thinking about the late, great Marvin Gaye; his smooth moves, his velvet voice - begging for a witness. When his own father blasted him away, no-one saw a thing, ‘xcept Mama.

The pen twitched in my hand. Sod it. I wrote it down anyway.

“She wouldn’t tell me what they’d said.
‘You lied’ she cried.
She slammed the hilt against my head.
‘I tried’ I lied.
She shot me dead.”

Clare stood at the kitchen door, moist mascara blackening beneath sad eyes. The pistol in her snowy-white hand didn’t surprise me. I knew she hated my lazy, cheating arse.

I stood, and shrugged. What was there to say? The lyrics fell from my lap to the floor. I took a step towards her, not bothering to say sorry.

You know the rest…

(c) Lily Childs November 2009

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This story was the winner of the November 2009 'One Word Challenge' from Writing Magazine's online forum 'Talkback.'
 
Writers are given a single word and must produce a piece of flash fiction in 200 words or less, or a poem in 40 lines or less. November's word was 'Witness.'

You can see my poetry entry at http://micheleranger.blogspot.com/2009/12/who-sees.html