Bev Irwin

                      SHORT STORIES


      CLIVE IN THE WELL

I let him go, the old bastard. Made my life hell, he did. Don’t think I’m sorry. I’m not. You don’t know what he put me through.

When I saw those manure covered boots of his sticking out of that well, it was just more than I could do to stop myself from running right over there and giving him a little shove. But, I say to myself, Emma Jean, you gotta think this through. You gotta make sure you do it right. You ain’t gonna get a second chance. So I crept over, nice and quiet like, cause he might hear me, yah know, and pull himself out of that well before I get close.

Way I see it he’d do the same thing to me if I gave him half a chance. I ain’t that stupid anymore. Not like that time when I was helping him with the haying.

There I was way up there in the haymow stacking them bales real neat like. Didn’t tell me it weren’t safe. Then, all of a sudden, there I was flying through the air. Them hay bales was floating past me, and wood crashing all around.  I missed all them barn boards, thank the Lord.  Landed hard on my backside.

Lucky I didn’t land on one of them cows in the mow below, but they must have been psychic like, cause they’d all hightailed it outside before that damn floor gave way. Thank God for all them hay bales. They sure did cushion my fall. Kept me out of the shit, too.

But then there was old Clive, madder than a hatter, he was. All them curse words. I hadn’t heard so many strung together in a dog’s age. Couldn’t figure out if it was the mess of the hay allover in the shit or the caved in roof, sure wasn’t him being worried about me.

So I don’t think that little shove I gave him was so bad.