Handle: A Six Sentence Story

The attorney walked up to the witness stand where the woman, head bowed, sat, shoulders slumped, her hands in her lap as they twisted a tissue, and said, "Tell the court, in your own words, just what happened."

She spoke, softly at first, then her voice grew stronger as the tissue twisted tighter and tighter, "At first, it was some plastic containers, you know, like from the deli, and different sizes, but the lids would fit any of them, and all the leftovers started going in them. Then the jars started, and it went from him washing empty jelly jars and re-using them to buying canning jars from the store, and he was putting leftovers in those. Next thing I knew, he was prowling in thrift stores, looking for a different kind of jar, these squared-off ones with interchangeable lids he said were called Golden Harvest canisters, and even though he insisted canisters were different, all I could see was jars, jars, jars; jars in the refrigerator filled with soup and vegetables and milk and iced tea, and in the cupboards filled with oats and pasta and nuts and candy, and on the counter filled with flour and sugar and empty plastic bags, and then he filled one with cat food, cat food, and I just couldn't handle it any longer, and I, I...."

Her voice trailed off as tears spilled down her cheeks, and as she silently wept, the attorney placed a large photograph on an easel, and a collective gasp came from every member of the courtroom as they took in the scene: the kitchen, the broken glass, the body, the jars and jars and jars and jars.

With hardly more than a glance at the easel, the judge rose from the bench, raised her gavel, and said, "Justified," as the courtroom broke into cheers.

No jury would convict me....

 

Linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge's Blog for Six Sentence Stories with the prompt "handle."