Maybe there is a . . .
j.d. daniels
Flexing her neck muscles, Dolly pursed her lips, then frowned.  “ Move that Big Ernie 2 ton truck.  Christ, you think you own the road?”

Pushing down on the accelerator, she glanced into the rearview mirror.  The truck driver raised his hand in salute.  Dolly tightened her grip on the steering wheel and floored it.

 Bright, colorful comics cluttered the passenger’s seat.  A soda bottle stuck out behind a torn cover of a page.  Patting her bulging breast pocket, she pulled out her smokes and eyed her belly. “You sleep, little Dirk,” she said softly, then grunted.  “Hey!  That’s me you’re kickin`.”  She inserted a cigarette between her lips, leaned forward and pushed in the lighter.  Her eyes hardened. “You’re so much like your daddy, and you not even born yet.”   

Her childhood abuser didn’t think she had a brain or a heart—only a cunt.  Well, she’d show him. “Read the file,” she’d written on the envelope for her P.I. husband to find.  

If she was a believer, she’d be prayin` right now.  But how could she believe in God?  She spit out the window. 

Dolly turned right at the white-washed boulder and weaved up a gravel road surrounded by  thick forest. 

Stepping out of the car, she rushed toward the open front door. 

Bang!  Her foot froze on the second step. 

Bang!  Her hand fluttered to her heart.


Gun in hand, her husband stepped onto the porch.

Looking into the sky, she smiled and yelled, “Hallelujah.”

First published: August, 2013
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