a fiction

My mother was caught standing on the front lawn in her flannel nightgown holding a shotgun. She was aiming it at the cars driving by. She was wearing her red Wellington's. Luckily the Retson's spotted her and phoned the Sheriff before anyone got hurt.

She once told me that even when she turned off the radio she could hear it for hours, days and weeks. Beethoven, Satie, Mozart and Bach were still playing in her head. All we heard were the screams and shouts of the inmates at the asylum.