On a sour, nasty wind, it traveled
'Zero dark thirty and do you know where your mother is?’
It echoed in the almost night-time gray, heels a click clack and slide stop clack on the ice laden cobblestone. It almost always sounded this way in December, in Massachusetts, off the bridge from Cambridge, to the smooth pavement of the city of Boston along the river.
Where is that point, that point between cold, chilled, slightly sleepy, sliding into frozen and coldly gone. Can you feel that point when you stopped caring, when it felt numb somehow? When the prayer you used to grit out meaningfully on bended knee, so fervently, got stiff, got stilted, got – dead. Walking dead . . .
Spore . . .
& crooked, fingers, spine, mind & all . . .
Crows cawed, and winds blew and every broken thing knew, more cold was coming. It was all creeking. Her back spoke sharply as she straightened it. She had been a loyal, good soldier, no matter what. Those psychiatric folks could say whatever they cared to, her family, brown and beige and mixed up with white had bled for this place and been bred in this place and would never leave. NEVER.
Tracy looked around quick, something in the corner of her eye and the need came back; the need to hunt. She resisted briefly until the shine of fresh red pearled like an irresistible ruby in the distance. Blood.
As her nose pointed the way, the scent told her - 'finish the prey' . . .
& she followed the scent to obey . . .
Broken . . .
da wind call you, and you do what cordissa say . . .
rumble in the sky . . . the lightening pierced the blue with white bright. the being that was not a being spoke, though she was a storm, a creature of nature, a being that had been only because she had allowed it to be
. . . the branches creaked her words . . .
this cordissa
dead . . .
dead . . .
DEAD . . .
so many made dead, dem - dey had there chance to recover. to re-do, but that was never dem, never what dey going to do. give dem a chance to recover from dem stupid - and here dey DARE. stare in the
face of death, into the very naked eye of death, and not pray dem live past the moment. NO.
dey laugh like nothing done happened. it stood there in silent as dey stared in its silent eye - its black hole of fate and state dey did NOT KNOW dem DEAD.
soul gone in an instant, and spirit just a wisp to be blown away.
Programmed . . .
So . . . How did they kill you?
It's kind of funny being dead -
like us . . .
And for goodness sake, don't say you're not dead, just because you are walking . . . They did it so many ways and sometimes 'cause we just . . .
a history of hearing destruction cordissa, mehaela . . .
whatever . . .
When I went to sleep, Dolly Pardon and Burt Reynolds were doing the bedroom scene. When I work up, Mehaela was making the mountains melt and explode and everyone who touched her skirts, died.
It was 1984 in December, and the next year, all of the ones
whom died because of her, DID die.
and yet again it seemed that their
souls were gone in an instant, and spirit just a wisp to be blown away.
so I guess I was just on a roll now, in 2012 . . .
on a roll . . .
hook line and sinker, that was how it was . . .
She bent her head down, focused on her keys, focused on getting inside, she never saw it coming.
Me.
And that was how it started. One man, one woman, one decision, his decision, his time to decide. One knife, one car with a good-sized trunk, and one cold night.
She didn't even make much of a fight.
Murder In Progress
Genesis . . .
It all has to start somewhere . . .
Select links to right for previews . . .
