By Tisa Garrison
I told her, “Bitch, that kid ain’t mine, I know you lyin’.” Then jus’ like Jerry Springer, her fists come flyin’. Then I’m duckin’ and dodgin’ and runnin’ and jumpin’ ‘til I done had enough and give her a thumpin’.
Right on cue, the police rolls up—two cops jumps out, puts on the cuffs.
Now she starts cryin’ and claimin’ abuse, says I attacked her in front of her kid, threatened her life if she don’t give me money.
I know right then it ain’t no use ‘cause I’m on parole, self-defense ain’t no excuse. Naw, that shit ain’t funny.
Tisa fulfills the flash fiction definition with an opening rhyme from her sassy self.
I want a few hundred more words.