How Two Wrongs Are Both Still Wrong

*This short came from a writing prompt on Arkansas Highway 71. I took a bit of a risk here. I hope you enjoy. Lurla Ann had grow’d up in west-central Arkansas, somewhere between Oklahoma and the outer limits of a.m. radio reception. She’d lived on her mama’s mama’s mama’s land for near fifty-five years, and if you asked her whether she meant her “great-grandma’s land,” she’d say, “nope, my mama’s mama’s mama’s” as if that were some sort of inviolable familial formality. She was six foot tall, broad-shouldered, and knew the fastest ways to dispatch both cocky roosters and cock-sure men.

*Continue reading at Deeper Story.