Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

The Summons

I had taken two turns around the parking lot already. There had to be a space. I had a summons with my name on it..and a number. Oh, I know. There's no way they could know of my penchant for reliance, my insistence on punctuality or the special compartment inside my handbag where I kept things like passkeys, coupons, and jury summons. But, they were expecting me. Surely there was a place to park my car!

It wasn't as though I wasn't acquainted with the lot. I knew it well. This was my fifth summons and, if chosen, my third time to serve. Maybe I'd make forewoman this time.

My thoughts took over as I waited at the end of a packed row of parked cars for a van to pass. I could hear the juror's oath inside my head...the way we said it...in unison, and the way our voices, male and female, merged, mixed, and became one thing.

The sound of a car horn blasted somewhere behind me, waking me from my reverie. A glance at the clock in my dash spurred me on even more. If I didn't hurry, I wouldn't make it in time for the judge's edict.

As I eased the nose of my KIA around the corner I noticed the van again; the same van I'd waited for, but now it was parked in front of some kind of loading dock, and it didn't take long for me to figure out what kind of cargo the vehicle held. I watched the haphazard line of shackled prisoners meander towards the concrete incline that would lead them to judgement. What had they done? Were they thieves? Rapists? Something worse?

The car horn sounded again, prompting me to signal "sorry" with my hand and, as I returned to the present, I found myself sitting in front of the only empty spot in the lot. Seems as though I'd get my chance after all.

"Madam Forewoman..."

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