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Murder In Progress

Why is Never the Question. It Is Always, 'Why Not?'

Murder is never kind, murder is never sweet and the spirit of such a thing of badness, is worse and much harder to defeat. It catches one and seduces another and seems the solution to so much while it tears asunder, all types of things. Any type of thing can be destroyed by the spirit of murder when it inspires, when it infects, when it chills . . .

So it caught a pair, who thought to do this on a dare, and let the games begin . . .

The Cold of IT

The end of the barrel was bitter, hurtful cold against the temple of her skull, round, though not pressed very hard.

'round and round, the merry-go-round, and where you stop, nobody knows . . .', the sing- song children's ditty played for an instant in her head, almost making her laugh and ask if this was a joke.

The man had grabbed her from the rear, arm under chin and inner elbow in the sweet spot for a quick tap out. The gun asserted and defined his control, as an arm under the chin could never do. She took a deep breath, hoping praying, that prayer; that prayer somehow could save her, that she had not ignored the binding times on ones knees so much, that the savior had forgotten about her.

'Listen, bitch, we're going to come around this corner and get into the car, and if you scream, I do NOT give a damn. I'll just stuff you and grab another,' the voice was low and rough, but it was the scent that refined her thought that this was a man, though her eyes could not verify this. The sour, garlic edge of sweat and the tangy musk that women don't quite acquire, told on him. The body as well, it was harder and squarer than what was common with women.

She grasped these meager evidences, as she followed in the stumbling awkward walk of someone forced, in the cold December night. The gravel crumbled and crunched as they came close to the side of a house, about two yards from where this thing had started. Her fingers, bare since she had removed her gloves to be able to feel for her keys, cramped with cold as she balled them; she clenched them harder – to hold on to the scream that could get her killed.

No one heard them and no one had seen them and the ride, a wide older car with a huge, huge trunk was before them. The gun pressed harder as he removed the arm to lift the trunk.

'Get in', he said as he pushed her towards the unlit interior.

'Why?' was her only word right then.

He laughed, short, rough and cold, 'Because we haven't decided dead or alive, and dead can't be undone.'

A sharp pain on the side of her head preceded the darkness, and the next place she woke was far, far, far, far from here . . .

Where she could not have dreamed.

The Wind was SO Cold . . .

And someone watched from above, though not quite the savior the young, passed out woman sought . . .

Cordissa looked down on the woman, for a moment softened, for an instant, far from cold.

Then she spat, 'Bah!' 'Bah, say cordissa!'

'Human foolery is NOT cordissa affair, woman should KNOW how human man be, how the seed of man be. Have dem babies if you dare, but do not let them catch you up!' Still, the cold, greenish cloud remained, hovering.

'If she die, much hope go with her. Such, cordissa not feel is a bad thing. If she die, seed of man win on woman, and that cordissa feel IS a bad thing.'

So thus, cordissa viewed it, and because of such cordissa acted, and through the cracks and crevices of the trunk that held the woman with this J name two times, cordissa slipped in, a frigid ice thing that the woman would be glad she COULD not see. This very way for a while, cordissa waited, until the human healing would allow the woman to swim to the consciousness and be spoken to, for the sake of defeating this man. If this woman had it in her to defeat this man. To cordissa, this was a goal worth working on, since while cordissa did NOT feel well about man, woman was what she had been when she, as wind being, had come down from the sky on the auspices of a man, centuries ago.

SO Cold that Sweat . . .

I woke up soaked, all salted and wet clothing a dry, dry lips, hearing this . . . It. She. Something. Sometimes I wonder if she is real, or if she is the creation of my fervid and able imagination. Maybe she is a truth, sublimated into fiction, or maybe she is a cloud that haunts us.

I do not know.

All I know, is that she is cordissa, an action, a thing, a storm that phrases human ways of naming in lower case because she is both beyond storm, and beyond anyone's attempt to define 'her', or control 'her'. Lower case because it, as description, is the way she views herself as a sour and infected wind, weighted with bitterness, ire and a hefty need for revenge . . . And I gaze out of the frost fogged window of my bedroom, I also know, though I cannot prove it, that she is moving right now to infect and affect someone; and no human being can stop her.

Wake up Little Girly . . .

'Remember, remember, 'rememba', your name is Jerrita Jericho, and don't let no one tell you that name ain't exactly you'. The last remember was said with her mother's slango tone, and woke her up. It was black, her eyes were open it was black, there was a blinding pain in her head, maybe the migraines finally took her vision. She waited for a moment, a memory the pain was making her too blind to see pulling at her. T word, t-word, she played the name game quietly, 'truck, trick, terrible, tank, turnip . . .' Truck seemed to ring for some reason, so she spoke out loud 'truck, trick, tractor tranquilizer, tru – TRUNK'. Then the memory came back as the light filtered from the edges of the trunk making the blackness into mere darkness. The panic ebbed then flowed back again, as the puzzle pieces clicked together.

Coming home, getting the keys, somebody grabbing her from behind, someone getting her into a trunk after hitting her in the head, hard. The words 'lay down, bitch' echoed from the start of this forced darkness, as the smooth drone of a luxury car's engine hummed onwards, steady and constant, the tone eased the way to remember the rest.

She fell into the trunk without even a murmur, so used to migraines was she, that the sudden spike of agony only made her faint, not scream with pain, and fall into the escape of darkness. Her mother's voice reminded her both of her name and of the refusal, to leave this place that was her home and of the refusal, to stop fighting. She kicked the inside of the trunk and kicked again. She was about to do this a third time when the car slowed and pulled to the right side and stopped. She fell still in the trunk, hoping it was the police and not his desire to get back at her kicking his car.

'Useless, bitch. Ain't nobody gonna hear you.' His voice was just loud enough to be heard over the idling engine. He started the car rolling again and pulled the car to the left and sped up. The car angled downwards and sped up some more and the familiar sound of the highway came through the well insulated walls. She kicked one more time.

He laughed, cool, maniacal and sarcastic and for the first time she questioned if she would ever get free.

They sped down the highway and past a little peaceful house and another piece of ruined paradise. gels Do Fall . . .

In another place in Merriton, someones long held secret was unveiled.

'Why didn't you tell me?' Carter's voice, deep and dark and pretty as polished mahogany seemed black and rough with hurt. 'Why?'

Angie looked at him, at the face round as a red bean, brick-toned cocoa and as handsome as his voice, her mouth opened but the words would not come out. The paper crumpled in his hands, as he stood there seeking her eyes, she looked down, away, over; anywhere was were she directed her eyes, except to that chocolate brown gaze, anywhere. Her hair fell in her face, a gray hair peeped through the heavy bangs.

'You kept saying, you had the birth control thing covered. You were going to quit so that we could try,' his heavy sigh broke the phrase. He restarted, 'You said . . .' his voice broke. The paper crumpled more in his huge, ham-sized hand, until he finally threw the paper to the floor. His voice shook, 'You should have let me know, you know. Let me know that you really didn't want to have any more. Let me know you did things so that you wouldn't have any more.' She bent down and picked up the paper off of the floor, the words were bold and seemed to jump off the white, white paper: 'STERILIZATION', with smaller letters saying the exact process that had been used, and a blur of other female procedures that had been done over the past eight years. Her tubes had been cut, seared and the lining of her uterus removed. It was as close to a hysterectomy as she could get, a year AFTER they had met and gotten serious, when she had gone to visit her family in Mexico.

She dared a look into those eyes, but he was looking away. His face was set in that 'hurt real bad' expression she had only seen on his face when his youngest sister had died.

'I . . .' came from her lips and faded away as he walked quietly towards the door, picking up his coat on the way.

From the open door with the cold pouring in he said, 'You know, she told me I would fuck around and make a mistake. That my luck would run out, was what she said. Didn't know it would be THIS TRUE. Fucked, and what a mistake.' The door closed behind him, quiet but firm, on the house he had moved much funds to provide for her, protecting the expensive furniture he had collected for them, and on the relationship he had rejected so many other women to have with her,

Angie.

Angie felt her first tear fall as she felt she heard the other virtual shoe, and the engine started on the big SUV of his outside. She looked up. Then she shook her head. It had been bound to happen – but she just wasn't ready to lose him, yet.

Rolling, Rolling, Rolling . . .

Stuck as she was, with the darkness rolling onwards, as the wheels under the luxury car kept going, she remembered things. The little things, big things, things she wished she had acted on, things remembered because she had that feeling that itched and creeped and crawled, that said that she just might die. It was that edgy negative charge in the air that made her hair stand up. Her thoughts roamed over to this man her heart had softened on; the one with which she thought that she had so much time, to figure out what they could be, to find out if they were down enough with each other to have a relationship. They used to tease each other, kidding in their straight faced way. His name floated like the edge of a foaming wave: Edgar. His gray green eyes would brighten sharply and contain his laugh, the edges crinkle and fold, though you never heard his lips emit one of those sounds.

He worked at a little place down the ways from where she lived; they had danced a fragile waltz. That edgy, playful movement of two whom had been burned hard and well. She only knew that he liked her from what was revealed, accidentally, as recalled in this memory, while rolling. She had come to the shop to purchase her normal Pepsi, with a side of ice, since the coffee was too much caffeine and the tea was too little. She would sequester herself in a quiet spot, probably in some corner of the shop, while she crunched on some ice and did her research.

'Still not brave enough?' Edgar said, filling the cup before affixing the lid, all before she got to the counter to order.

'That's not a lack of bravery, it's common sense.' She called out in a teasing way, as she walked to the far corner of the shop that was the most peaceful, as well as the least occupied. He followed her back, carrying the drink. Rather than place it on the table, he waited until she arranged her things, two heavy brief cases, one bulky purse and another tote, then handed it to her.

As their fingers touched on the sides of the cold cup she looked up, smiling. 'Thank you so much, I wouldn't have tipped it over.'

He smiled into her eyes and said, 'You're right, the table is steady.'

He leisurely moved his hand back from around the cold cup, still staring into her eyes. One beat, two beats, three beats, four she counted, then she felt herself flush and looked down.

'Oh, so you're just making sure I wouldn't be a total klutz.' She laughed a bit, and shifted from side to side.

'No, you're not too much of a klutz, either,' he smiled before he spoke, the laughter using his eyes as flush filled his cheeks, then he turned away.

She looked quizzically after him and wondered. He had smiled again when she had brought up her money and collected her cup of ice.

She just laid there, wondering, thinking if, if, if, if she had another chance she would . . .

And the voice came from the corner of the trunk, 'Do nothing.' The cold air whistled through the edge of the trunk as the voice / almost voice, spoke.

'What?!' Jerrita gasped.

'Dat man, maybe he not so bad as dem others, but still . . .'

'What?!' Jerrita gasped again.

'Girl, you as dull as dem men and as a holder of hope, cordissa should let you die. Maybe in death you can be turned to vengeance.'

Jerrita, coming to her senses, pleaded, 'Please, if you can just help me out of this . . .'

'Hah,' cordissa said.

'No.'

'Hah! Cordissa say.'

'No, please,' Jerrita pleaded.

'Cordissa say dis, you kill him, but it cost you. Hand or foot, leg or mind, it cost you. You choose, each time you miss your chance, it will cost you more.'

Jerrita whimpered.

'Kill him dead, stare in dem eyes first and know what I say true; you do him before he do you. Kill him dead, or he WILL kill, and that will be the end of YOU!' Cordissa departed from the trunk as abruptly as she had started to speak.

Jerrita whimpered again, a long keening sound. Her mind filled with all of the nevers and the things she had had no inclination to do, and all of the things she had never wanted to try. She did not reflect on the strangeness of this. How odd it was that she took this voice as being real, not her imagination, though some part of her knew her Anglo friends would think her mad. But if this saved her, she might not end up dead, yet.

Whispers in the wind and songs in the trees, bees that hummed songs of all types of things. Afro- hispanic homes held court to many thoughts, decorated with skulls and spirits vying with priests and churches and proper clothes for service. The chill of that history, before the European arrived shivered and opened its mouth to speak. Background and the whispers, the whispers of beings in the clouds, of spirits in the air, and places which needed the blood of the many to run the world. If the woman of the wind could keep her alive then, she paused on this, the practical, the she-is- unarmed-right-now, how of this thing. The cold grew and she shivered and she wondered, 'Oh, god, how?'

The luxury ride went over a long rough spot and Jerrita's stomach rolled in reaction, shivering for the next act.

The Monsters Have Come to Dinner

The moon closed on the night of December 21st 2012, and the sun rose the next day without the Mayan day price of 266,000 hearts. The life price was still due, though the holder of that note were dead. Only those related to the ones who had come from the sky could enforce the contract; and they could only do so if the violator was not part of the more powerful contract of salvation. Still, the grounds were ripe for death's plucking, since so many rejected the contract and went their own way. That was just how it was. You were an inheritor or and inheritor. Which one was up to you, claim the inheritance of heaven or end up with being bequeathed hell. The aliens had come down and mixed with humans and made giants and other creatures of great renown. The aliens of the light eyes and the clear hair had escaped the fire sky, into the caves and made for themselves a world of their choosing. At least that was the story of the ancestors, like the inferno by Dante.

Hell.

I did not know it fiction or fact until we found Xibalba, the place to pay the price for the soul. I could not deny the fact that it seemed to prove the validity of Exodus, Chapter 7; for the eradication of the ones who were in charge of this hell.

All I knew was that the stories formed a macabre countdown towards December 21st, 2012, and after that, nothing was the same again.

Double-Edged, Handle-less Blade

Perhaps that time of being cold, hungry and sure to be dead, defined it: 'regret will kill me, if I do nothing.' She pressed her eyes shut as the words rang true. She prayed just this fire would inspire her to do something to get out of this. She had let doubt, jagged edges of old hurt lead for the whole deal. Women have a long whole deal for such things, the mirror says the things you want so badly to be will never be true for you; and so many are willing to reassure you of these facts, firmly.

'You really ain't all THAT,' echoes and echoes and follows you from the room.

Her eyes leaked as all of it solidified in her thoughts. 'I never even kissed him. I could die right here, and I never even tried.'

It hurt to think how many times she had some SO close. To consider how many times they had flirted and their eyes had clung, and their bodies had swayed towards the other, only to be stopped just that thin hair from doing. It hurt to think that she had a love and she had to come to face death of one type or another to free herself to get back.

Funny, how easy it was to spit in the waters in which love flowed.

Just the regret alone was almost, ALMOST the edge she needed to take up the blade and kill that man, if she needed to do so.

Almost.

As the big ride finally pulled over, Jerrita waited in a silent misery, her guts curdled in her belly and her fists knotted to their sides. The dark face hovered above her when the trunk abruptly opened.

His teeth, so white and perfect and bright flashed as he grinned with a mischief that could only be defined as evil.

'Ready to play,' his deep voice intoned cheerfully.

She parted her lips to reply and missed the movement of his fist.

He punched her out, and the darkness claimed her once more as her cheek and jaw exploded in icy, bitter agony.


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