The Tree Doesn’t Fall Far From the Apple
by Stephen Allan
Ma, look at the clouds.
Are you deaf? The clouds.
Oh, yeah, what about ‘em?
They look weird with that moon.
You called me out for this?
Ain’t it pretty?
They’re other things on my mind.
I met Angie on a night like this.
Christ. We’re going to get into this now?
What’s your problem?
We need to finish before sunrise.
We got time.
Her eyes were so beautiful.
You’re like your goddamn father.
Ain’t like that piece of garbage.
I kissed her that night.
Jesus, you’re an idiot. Are you forgetting what they did to us?
Well, give me a hand. She’s not the lightest whore.
You shouldn’t call your son an idiot.
You called me an idiot.
Well, you’re an idiot to get mixed up with this hussy.
You married Dad.
I didn’t say I haven’t made mistakes.
You got blood on that shirt. Take it off and wrap it in the plastic with your father.
You think this is Dad’s?
No, the blood.
Who knows? We messed them up pretty good.
I wish we hadn’t.
You’re the one started this. You’re the one with the knife.
I only stuck Dad. You’re the one that went after Angie.
That couldn’t be helped. The slut deserved every cut.
Well, I wish we hadn’t done it is all.
Never mind. Just put the bodies in the trunk and go inside. Momma’ll make you some pancakes.
[Stephen Allan lives in Maine. You can read his random thoughts at Noir Writer.]