Murph tried to not fidget where he sat but that was powerful hard to do when a man’s necktie was chokin’ him and his fundament was startin’ to feel like it were made of the same cordovan his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ shoes was.
It were his own fault anyway. When he'd come home at 3 a.m., drunk as Cooter Brown and howlin’ out a Hank Sr. song, Myrtle Mae had give him but two choices. Get him some preachin’ that very Sunday mornin’ or get himself beat bloody with her mama’s rollin’ pin. Tweren’t so hard a choice to make. He weren’t really the kind to truckle easy-like but he figgered he purty much liked his skull to be the shape it were rightly supposed to be.
He tried concentratin’ on the glurge the pastor was spewin’ but weren’t no easy task. The blasted fool was shoutin’ on how was more to bein’ forgived for sins than just bein’ sorry. Claimed a man had to make amends lest he…vitiate that forgiveness.
This story was written for my own weekly Monday Mixer flash fiction writing challenge. Even though it is ineligible, I like to test myself to see how well I can do with my own prompt words. I worked in 5 of the 9 but didn't want to try for more.