Stephen King’s Writing Exercise
A bit of a detour from what I normally write
Writing Prompt
In On Writing, Stephen King offers an exercise that hits these sorts of points:
- A couple have a kid, but the man becomes abusive
- The wife gets a restraining order and divorce, but he still comes after her
- Husband gets arrested, but breaks out of jail
- Ex-wife is alone one day, husband breaks out of jail and comes home
It’s a bit more detailed than that, but that’s the gist. He then says “now flip the genders.” OK, here’s my opener to a short story, the Better Shot.
The Better Shot
I looked over at her, weapon in the ready position.
POW POW.
Two shots, center of mass. Target at 25 feet.
POW POW.
Two shots again. In the innermost circle of the silhouette target.
We pulled off our earmuffs as we left the range, targets rolled up under our arms. My partner was always the better shot. Holding them side by side, it looked like she’d put all 10 of her bullets through the same two holes, while mine listed off to one side or another.
We were quite the pair. We met and worked together, and then became intimate. She and I got very close after a tough day dealing with some teenage druggies, and we knew that we’d have to work separately if we wanted to make it work (can’t blur the lines/ piss in your pool).
After a year we got married, a regular cop wedding, full of assholes. And that was just our families. The folks on the force were alright.
Suburban policing is mostly dealing with druggy teenagers, but the occasional homicide or major felony rolled our way. We were on separate detail but crossed paths occasionally.
“Hey handsome.” she’d smirk at me.
“M’am.” Was always my retort, with a head nod and a twinkle in my eye.
After a year of trying, we had a kid together. Guns in the house were now locked away, and we did our best to survive the extra sleeplessness layered on by a hungry baby.
Something changed in her after the baby was born. She was much sadder, cut off from the work and unused to having a baby at her breast, she started to get weird. As soon as I got back from work, she’d dump the baby in my arms and get in the car.
Never told me where, but just drove.
One day, she didn’t come back. I called the force to log a missing persons near 2300, but they found her. Still alive, but she’d gone off the side of the road and hit a tree at high speed. Slammed her head good enough to where she was bleeding and unconscious when they found her.
The woman that woke up wasn’t my wife. Was nasty with all of us, but especially with the baby. I could see it in her eyes that she wanted to hurt the kid, and hurt me.
Worst moment of my life, the day I wrestled her to the ground after she started to get really physical with the kid; the baby screaming in the background, I held her down until she stopped struggling. She was the better shot, but I was stronger. She just kept saying “FUCK YOU” ‘till it died in her throat. Over and over and over until it was a whisper. I sobbed and the kid screamed.
Called the force, had her taken in for a psych eval. She almost broke the guy’s nose, and kept tearing at herself or anyone who’d get close. Ended up in the psych ward. Suicide watch.
Another year. I relied on my sister and mother to help out with the little one, and had dropped princess off with my mom for a kid’s birthday. Little kids just run around and slam into each other, bunch of wrecking balls with the string come loose. My mom thought it was hilarious.
Anyway, I come back home but something is wrong. House has an energy I’m not used to.
I’m flipping channels and, well lookie here, the psych ward had a major fuck up. Transportation vehicle swung off the road. Bunch of crazies crawled out and, they rounded the real loons up, but a couple of them were crazy and determined. A few unknown folks on the loose.
No names, but I know what that feeling is now. I sense soft footsteps coming down the stairs. Trained officer, entering a perp’s house. No backup, but a good shot. Better than me.
“Stay right where you are.” A voice, imperious and unhinged, and the sound of a pistol safety clicking. The TV drones on but I’m not hearing it. I raise my hands above my head. I know the drill.
“M’am.” I say, as I used to, hoping to break through her armor. I can’t see her but I can feel her flinch.
“We’re going to do this nice and easy.” Her voice changes on a dime, good cop. She swivels into view, and I see a broken mirror version of my wife. Her hair is a ragged mop, her face scarred from her fingernails pulling at it, but her eyes are clearer than I’ve ever seen them. There’s intention painted on her irises.
“What would you like me to do.” I say flatly. Hands above my head, not reaching for the remote. She has my Glock with the red dot painted on my chest (we knew each other’s safe combo, and of course I never changed the goddamn thing).
“We’re not staying here. You’re driving my ass to freedom.” She’s wearing my hoodie over her psych ward outfit. I got rid of all her clothes (the smell was maddening)
“Freedom? Where would that be?”
“My cousin’s compound.”
Ahhh, the fucking survivalists. Well, if I live, this trip is going to suck.
“What about the baby?”
She spits.
“Let me get the keys.”
…
Thanks for reading!
