The derringer fit perfectly
in her tiny hand.
She gripped it with a fury
as her temper seethed.
She ran screaming
and fired at her drunken rogue of a husband.
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A story told to me by my mother of a confrontation between her five foot tall mother and six foot five father. My grandfather was an enormous, carousing drunk of a man who worked the oil fields of Borger, Texas in the early 1930's. He came stumbling home to the family's one room shanty a bit too late and a bit too drunk one night, angering my grandmother. She was in her early twenties and took off after my grandfather screaming and firing the two shots she had in her little derringer. Fortunately for my grandfather the little gun only had enough fire power to shoot a few sputtering yards. I am so glad my mother saw humor in life and didn't hide skeletons in the closet to be forgotten by the ticking clock of time.