Rediculous

I may have agreed to this, but I don't like it.

Writing is for poets. I'd rather be out shooting something. Justine tells me it's healthy to vent. She also tells me when my jacket is worn wrong, or my clothes are in need of mending. Or is that Sophia? I can't keep track anymore, two women picking at the way I choose to live...

But this choice was not an easy one.

We grew up with an absent father. Richard and I never knew when to expect him or in what condition he'd return. As our mother had never been in the picture, Richard, the elder by eight years, took care of our needs. (Using Father's finances of course.) I had limitless rein on the town, and being a free spirit caused more mischief than I care to recall. Setting the farmer's pigs free, blacking out the baker's windows, running a herd of cattle through the heart of town...

Richard tried to straighten me out. Heaven knows he had his hands full, what with his studies at the university... Mostly he fixed my mistakes. (Paid people off, challenged their integrity, hid the evidence...) He couldn't stop me. No one could.

Except Father.

Old Faithful

(Justine insists I include a picture.)