The prosecution and the defending counsel had given their closing arguments, and the Magistrate was instructing the jury.
He was regularly interrupted by shouts from the gallery and was obliged to call for order, hammering his gavel to maintain control.
I stood and went to the back of the courtroom, opened the double doors and went out into the corridor.
The relative calm was a relief from the heavy atmosphere within and provided an opportunity for reflexion.
It wasn’t looking good for my poor husband.
The evidence was damning and the lack of an alibi was awkward, to say the least.
He stands trial for murder, and if he’s found guilty, which he probably will be, he’ll serve a long sentence if he’s lucky and life if he isn’t.
The Magistrate, I’ve heard, has a ruthless reputation.
I don’t mind either way of course.
I’ll be glad to shed this charade of the dutiful, tearful wife.
After a short pause, if he appeals, I’ll move out of town and start my life afresh with a fresh identity and another man.
I hope he’ll be easier to manage than this one.
It seems to get harder every time. (199 words)
The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is to create a story / poem or something using around about 200 words with the photo as a guide. It doesn’t have to be centre stage in the story, I have seen some, where the placement is so subtle, the writer states where it is.
Photo © Al Forbes @ A Mixed Bag