When he came home later that night, still a little high, still a little angry, he found a window busted, the TV smashed, and his chair, a run down thing that used to be his Ma’s —  nowhere in site. And that, more than anything, was what was pissing him off. “Where the fuck is my chair?” He took in the size of things. The discards that had lived beneath his chair, the busted TV, the photos of him and Justine all weddinged up, the fist sized holes in the walls, and over there in the corner his and Justine’s mangy old dog licking his mangy old balls. Oh yeah—it was one hell of a life they’d gotten themselves into, he and Justine duking it out in a double wide in the middle of a cabbage field. Fall rains making all the world smell like rot. One fucking hell of a life. “I said, where’s the hell’s my God damned chair?” But all he got for reply was the quick two clicks a shotgun being cocked.

(Note: everyday I try to take one black and white photograph. Sometimes a story comes with them. When they do, I will post them here.)