My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

Archive for the tag “crime”

The end of his tether

He’d often wondered about his tether and the end of it.  Until he picked up a dictionary only a week before he hadn’t known what a tether even was.  Now he knew and now he thought he’d reached the end of it.

He was glad it was winter.   He didn’t mind the cold and the snow and, in happier times, he’d always been an enthusiastic skier.  In happier times.  Yes, he thought, he didn’t mind the winter with its snowy peaks, white crystal frosted fields and the smell of mulled wine in the market square and steaming paper cups warming hands in the cold.

He looked out of a window to the outhouse.  The cold.  The cold was good.  It killed off many of the pests that hung around in warmer climates or even down in the valley, although now other pests had found him and disturbed his peace.  Footprints and a strange indent in the snow crossed the yard, as if a sack of firewood had been dragged.  Yes, he’d reached the end of his tether, and the bodies mounted up in the outhouse.

50 word fiction – Beebee

“Have you seen Beebee?”

“No, where’d he go?”

“He was out of whisky, out of smokes; he went to the liquor store.”

“Where the fuck is he now?”

“He must still be there man.”

“Did he take…?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did you give…?”

“No.”

A siren screams in the night.

“Beebee.”

Hell’s kitchen

The Sous-chef was on the floor. I left the knife where I found it, in a red puddle beside his foot. Its blade pointed towards the door, as if indicating the escape direction of the guilty party. The stainless steel worktop dripped and I noticed more splatters up the wall, behind the sink. A saucepan had overturned, spilling its now-smoking contents over the hobs.

A constable came in. “We have him sir; he was outside the rear entrance, behind some dustbins,” his face registering shock as he looked around at the scene.

“Where is he now?”

“In the car, sir.”

“Keep him there.”

The constable backed out slowly as I turned around, taking in details. A handprint, red and smudged, hailed me from the fridge door. I felt something drip onto my left shoulder. I knew what it was even without looking up, but I looked anyway – curiosity is like that. Then I heard a muffled voice behind me.

“Yes!”

Knee joints clicked as the Sous-chef rose to his feet, a look of triumph on his face as his arm withdrew from under the fridge with his prized wooden spoon, a gift from Keith Floyd apparently.

“So much for Hell’s Kitchen eh, officer?”

“What happened?”

“Well, when the Maître announced Gordon Ramsay’s arrival the chef became agitated, to say the least. Then, while he was plating Mr Ramsay’s Penne al Pomodoro, I happened to mention he’d forgotten the basil and then …” He waved his spoon around the kitchen.

Keep her well hid

They were sitting in the corner, I guess looking for a little privacy but they came to the wrong place if they wanted that. The tables were too close together for one thing, and besides, everyone had to pass by that table to go to the toilet.

She was angry, upset, pissed off. Choose any adjective you want; she looked ready to stick her cocktail stick and untouched olive where the sun don’t shine, his sun at least.

I arrived after being dragged around the shops for two hours and I’d run out of patience and my credit card out of, well…credit. I put Lucy in a cab, with bags, they were all hers anyway, and made my way down to the King’s Head. Football was on the TV and I wanted, no, I needed a pint or two and anyway, I was busting for a lash. I nodded to the barman, asked for a pint of ale and made my way to the Gents. That’s when I noticed them.

He had his hands out in front of him when I passed, and, relieved at being relieved, I made my way back with less haste and he still had his hands in front of him, like he was praying or testing for rain or something. Whatever he was doing was having no positive effect whatsoever; maybe he’d run out of credit too. I got my pint and made my way to a little table, a little way off to the right of them, with one of those retro Heineken mirrors on the wall next to me and I could see them in action, as well as hear them.

“You were a twat Paul.”

“I know love, I don’t know what happened, it just happened.”

He’d chatted up, touched up or ballsed up by the sounds of things. Typical bloke, I know how you feel mate, I thought. I went back to the football, trying to concentrate on the game which was slower settling than a pint of Guinness. The ball was pinging about all over the place, no fun to watch but I watched it anyway, it certainly beat the hell out of shopping. A free kick got my attention but not for long.

“Where is she? Where did you put her?” Her? This made my ears pick up a bit. I pretended to watch the football.

“Behind the allotments near the railway embankment. There’s some old garages there and I left her there.”

“You f…”.

“Do you want some more drinks?” It was the barmaid, taking their empties from their table. He said yes, she said nothing so I guess she either nodded or shook her head, there are only so many things you can communicate without words. The barmaid plonked the glasses on the bar and poured a lager.

“It won’t be for long, it was like a temporary measure, you know. I didn’t have the time.”

“You could have done better than that. She’ll be found in no time Paul. What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

“Shh…, she’s coming back.”

The mirror told me she’d folded her arms, a frown that looked furrowed with a hand-plough creasing her forehead. She looked at her phone, he looked at her. The barmaid put two glasses down, it was a nod then.

“I’ll go now, after this drink, alright?”

“Yeah? Well, I suppose it will be dark in half an hour, won’t it?”

“Yeah, it’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

Who was she? What had she done? What had he done to her? I had a hundred questions and didn’t know what to do with the information I’d heard.

“I hope you’re right Paul, she’s been in the family for years.”

“She’ll be alright Trish, really. Who’d want an old car like that anyway?”

************

I entered a competition recently where I had half an hour to write on one of three subjects given.  I chose “a conversation” and out came the above.  While I was writing I didn’t know who “she” was but as the minutes ticked away I decided I wanted to write something that didn’t involve death or murder, and as we English-speakers have a penchant for talking about our cars as feminine, the little ending came to me.  I submitted with one minute left and received a ‘commended’ so it was ok. 

Hemingway once said “write drunk, edit sober” – when you only have half an hour to do both, which do you chose? 

The dark kitchen

Another tip of the hat to Morgen Bailey and this time her poetry prompts. “the dark kitchen” immediately took my fancy and this time I had it down in less than a third of the allotted time.  Once again, thanks for that Morgen.

The Dark Kitchen

The dark kitchen
The darker drawers
The still darker knives,
Each telling their story

The darkened oven
Black from the roasts
The un-cleaned fat
That spat; and sizzled.

The dark old woman
Dressed all in black
Black widow in waiting
Black venom giving

The death-grey husband
Now ever in the dark
Her dark kitchen her web
Her poison pernicious

The dark pantry
Away from the light
Locked in tight
Opened only at night
When all is black

StoryADay May 2014 (day 2) – My fridge, my end?

I know, I’m late but there was no way of doing this yesterday, work gets in the way sometimes. “Magnetic words” – that took some thought and alas…this is all I came up with. Roll on to Day 3

**************************

I can feel my heartbeat, my temples are thumping; a bit like the sound of a washing machine on slow spin at the end of its cycle. My stomach cramps, or rather alternates between cramps and butterflies that flutter by. I need to step away, I need to get a grip. What is going on?

I woke up, splashed my face and made my way to the kitchen, no changes from my usual Sunday morning habit of making myself a pot of tea and preparing a plate of digestive biscuits and placing both on the little coffee table, spreading out and opening a book. This morning however I awoke early; thunder trounced my head and lightning tried to sear its way through the blinds and the rain hammered on anything it touch. A perfect day for reading, I thought, pouring the first cup from the pot. Then, without taking either opening a book or switching on my laptop, I step over to the fridge.

I, now, you, why, see, kill

It’s been a week now. Last Sunday morning I awoke, made my tea and started to read when a whispering noise made me look up from my book. I didn’t see anything; at first. The words, they rearranged themselves, on their own. There’s no one else here except me. There hasn’t been since last Saturday, except now I think she’s come back. Or she sees why I did or else…I’m going to see why she will.

Walking Out

The wall clock ticks off time as I sit in the pre-dawn darkness, a small white table lamp throwing faint shadows on the wall every time a bug goes near it.  I turn in the revolving office chair and look out into the darkness, trying to gather what kind of weather awaited my day.  I don’t want rain, I’m sick of it.  Every night for the last two weeks the only sound that has accompanied my dreams is the hard, flat beating of water against the hard, flat roof above my head.

I sit with my hands in my lap.  I look down at them, now almost devoid of colour, intertwined and wrestling with each other, a habit of mine.  I want to feel the sun on my skin, warming it, burning my face and reddening my neck.  Of all the things I miss the most, the sun is in my top two list.  The other is Lizzie, my daughter, the only family that has come to see me during the last 6 years.  I see the sun when I see my daughter, all beaming smiles, overflowing long, dark curly hair smelling of apple-scented shampoo and with wrinkles of laughter around her eyes; always pleased to see me.  Together we’ve sat and planned this day when I would finally walk from this cell and now, finally, that day has come and I sit at this wooden desk, scarred from a hundred cigarette burns and awaiting her arrival.  Even the guards had treated me differently this morning, maybe even those hard-noses appreciate the importance of today.

Before she arrives I have to have another interview with the warden.  While I sit looking at my white, continuously wringing hands he comes in, his hands resting on his thick, brown leather belt and trying to smile.  Yes, today they all seem happy for me.  If smoking were still permitted inside the building I think he may have even offered me a cigarette, hell, possibly even a cigar.

“So Mr Onfray,” he says, trying to wedge himself between the wooden arms of the chair and not doing a very good job, “your last day.  I guess it’s a stupid question but I want to ask how it feels.  How do you feel Mr Onfray?”

My hands stopped trying to strangle themselves and I look him in the eyes.

“It’ll be the last time my Lizzie sees her daddy in these prison blues, Warden.  I’m thankful for that.”

He raises an eyebrow and one side of his mouth, which I take to be a smile, and nods his head, his bulging neck doing its best to escape his shirt collar.

“I guess you’re right,” he says.

After all, how many men had he seen walk out of here, their last meal served at noon no longer weighing heavily in their stomachs.

That long, last walk.

Sound Travels

In the cold January air flame and smoke disappear

but the sound goes on forever. 

The pistol crack; the victim’s gasp,

dead before his wide-eyed head smashes against the pavement;

the screams of the passers-by;

the shouting policemen holding them back;

the wailing ambulance;

the knock, apologetic, on the door;

the crying, desperate,

left without a husband and father;

the monotone of the priest;

the 12 clicking heels take the coffin;

the sobs of the veiled

and the final, definite scraping of soil,

thrown from shovel to grave. 

The shot was still ringing out.

Jack and the Beanstalk – Modern day London remix

I’ve not blogged for a while, a holiday (finally), a short trip back to the UK (again finally) and work got in the way, as well as some evening studies just to completely muddle my brain.  I have also been working on a short story which has now got out of hand and is slowly heading towards (at least) novelette territory.

However, last week back in the UK I came across a book of fairy tales in the second-hand bookshop.  I flicked through and came back home with an idea, which, after my Little Red Riding Hood of last year, I just had to get it down.

Take it away Jack…

____________________________________________________________________________________

Once upon a time, in fact not that long ago, in a small flat overlooking Clapham Junction there lived ateenager called Jack and his single mother, Tracy.  They were poor.  Tracy was on benefit and had a bit of a problem with the vodka so Jack, ever resourceful, had to go out and steal so they could eat.

One day, while out thieving a couple of BLTs from M&S, Jack was caught by the security guard, taken to the office and held while the police came, and eventually they did.  Jack was also linked to a spate of other thefts but they couldn’t prove anything but he still finished the day with the promise of an ASBO over his head.

He was eventually let out but was in tears, as he’d promised his mum he would bring home some supper.  “Nothing for it,” sobbed the young lad, “I’m gonna have to go up Kings Cross and sell a piece of me so we can eat.”

One of the two coppers, big and burly with a sergeant-major moustache and a funny walk, was following him out of the station and overheard his lament.  He tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hello again son,” said the copper.

“Alright sir?” answered Jack.

“Where are you going?” asked the copper.

“I am going to Kings Cross to earn some dough sir.”

“It’s lucky I met you son,” said the copper. “You may save yourself the trouble of going so far, and save you the expense, though I’d bet you would have jumped the train barrier anyway.”

With this, he put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out five curious-looking beans.

“What do you call these, beans?  Ain’t seen nothing like them before,” said Jack.

Yes,” said the copper, “beans, but they’re the most wonderful beans ever known.  If you plant them overnight, by the next morning they’ll grow up and reach the sky. But to save you the trouble of going all the way to Kings Cross, I don’t mind exchanging them for a piece of you,” he said, fiddling his truncheon.

“Done!” cried Jack, who was so delighted with the bargain that after the deed was done he minced all the way home to tell his mother how lucky he had been.

But oh! How disappointed his poor single mother was.

“Off to bed with you, and no PlayStation!” she cried; and she was so angry that she threw the beans out of the window and they landed on the embankment next to the railway line.  Poor Jack went to bed without any supper (not that there was any, apart from the lemon in his mother’s vodka) or PlayStation, and cried himself to sleep.

When he woke up the next morning, the room was almost dark, which even for an English autumn was rare if not impossible at 10.30.  Jack jumped out of bed and ran to the window to see what the matter was.  The sun was shining brightly outside, which was strange for Clapham but from the ground right up beside his window there grew a great beanstalk, which stretched up and up as far as he could see, into the sky.

“I’ll just see where it leads to,” thought Jack, and with that he put on his stolen Reeboks, gangster-boy jeans with the arse down to his knees and a hoody bought in the last winter sale from the nearby camping shop and stepped out of the window and on to the beanstalk, and he began to climb upwards. He climbed up and up, till after a time his block of flats, an eyesore from the 70s, looked a mere speck below, but at last the stalk ended, and he found himself in a new and beautiful country. He immediately looked around for something to steal but there was nothing going.  A little way off there was a great castle, with a broad road leading straight up to the front gate. “I’ll ‘ave some of that.” He said, to no one in particular.  But then a beautiful maiden appeared from nowhere.

“Bleedin’ ‘ell,” he said, “I wish I could do that, I’d ‘ave a few things away I’ll tell ya, luv.”

The maiden winced at the lad’s massacre of the English language.  Staring at his jeans, wondering if in fact Jack was incontinent; after all, why else would they hang so low.  Then she saw his hoody from Millets, felt pity and decided to tell him.

“Hello Jack.”

Jack, not the quickest on the uptake, wondered how she knew his name and then presumed she’d got news of his earlier arrest, soon found out she knew a great deal about him.  She told him how, when he was quite a little baby, his father, a semi-successful drug-dealer, had been slain for trying to rip off the giant who imported directly from Columbia and lived in yonder castle, and how Jack’s mother, in order to save Jack and for a few cases of Smirnoff, had been obliged to promise never to tell the secret.

“All that the giant has is yours,” she said, and then disappeared quite as suddenly as she came.

“She must be a fairy, or there were still some ‘shrooms left over in that tea-pot from Mum’s girly night in,” thought Jack.

As he drew near to the castle, he saw the giant’s wife standing at the door.

“If you please, missus,” said he, “you wouldn’t ‘ave a bite to eat would ya?  I ain’t had nothing to eat since yesterday.”

Now, the giant’s wife, although very big and very ugly, had a kind heart, at least before she got on the Tennents Super, so she said: “Very well little man, come in; but you must be quick about it, for if my husband the giant finds you here, he will beat you up, break your bones and all.”

So in Jack went in, and the giant’s wife gave him a good breakfast, but before he had half-finished it there came a terrible knock at the front door, which seemed to shake even the thick walls of the castle.

“Oh shite, that’s my husband!” said the giantess, in a terrible fright; “we must hide you somehow,” and she lifted Jack up and popped him into the empty kettle.

“Oi!” shouted Jack, scared shitless in the dark.

“Shut up a minute you silly little git,” she said, sticking her finger in the kettle spout and cutting off any sound the saggy arsed-trouser boy could make.  No sooner had she done so the giant roared out:

“Fee, fum, fi, fo;
I smell the blood of a young ASBO;
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I’ll bust his teeth and jump on his head!”

Oh shoosh!” said his wife; “you having a laugh love.  You been on the ale already?  It’s the T-bone steaks you smell.” So the giant sat down, and ate 5 kilos of T-bone with a gallon of home-made ale. When he finished he said:  “Woman, bring me my money-bags.” So his wife brought him two full bags of gold, and the giant began to count his money. But he was so sleepy from the meal and ale that his head soon began to nod, and then he began to snore, like the rumbling of thunder. Then Jack, slipping and sliding with his Reeboks in the copper kettle, crept out, and made off with the two bags, and though the giant’s dog, an enormous Pit-bull, barked loudly, he made his way down the beanstalk back to the flat before the giant awoke.

Jack and his mother were now in the money; she hugged him and after the fourth vodka and tonic told him she loved him.  Jack went down Maccy Dee’s and had a couple of Big Macs to celebrate, before buying an ounce of puff from his classmate.  Things were rosy for a few weeks but his mum’s shopping sprees and nights down the pub along with Jack’s computerised home entertainment fixation soon meant they were down to shopping at Lidl in no time at all so it occurred to him one day that he would like to see how matters were going on at the giant’s castle. So while his mother was away, offering favours to the owner of the local off-licence in the hope of something to drink, he climbed up, and up, and up, and up, until he got to the top of the beanstalk again.

The giantess was standing at the door, just as before, but she did not know Jack, who was more finely dressed than on his first visit. Well, that wasn’t hard, compared to the first time.  Maybe she was dazzled by the bling.  “’Ello missus,” said he, “will you give me some breakfast?”

“Run away,” said she, “or my husband the giant will beat you up, broken bones and all. The last boy who came here stole two bags of gold – off with you!”  But the giantess had a kind heart, although she looked eagerly at her watch, waiting for Tennents hour to arrive, and she allowed Jack to come into the kitchen, where she set before him enough breakfast to last him a week. Scarcely had he begun to eat than there was a great rumbling like an earthquake, and the giantess had only time to bundle Jack into the oven when in came the giant.  No sooner was he inside the kitchen when he roared:

“Fee, fum, fi, fo;
I smell the blood of a young ASBO;
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I’ll bust his teeth and jump on his head!”

But his wife told him he was mistaken, and after breakfasting on a dozen deep-fried chickens and a gallon of home-made ale, he called out: “Wife, bring the little brown hen!”  The giantess dutifully went out and brought in a little brown hen, which she placed on the table.

“Lay!” said the giant; and the hen at once laid a golden egg.  His wife breathed a sigh of relief, glad that he wasn’t referring to her for a quick shag.  “Lay!” said the giant a second time; and the hen laid another golden egg. “Lay!” said the giant a third time; and she laid a third golden egg.

“That’ll do for to-day,” said he, and stretched himself out to go to sleep. As soon as he began to snore, Jack crept out of the oven, went on tiptoe to the table and, snatching up the little brown hen made a dash for the door. Then the hen began to cackle, and the giant began to wake up; but before he was quite awake, Jack had escaped from the castle, and, climbing as fast as he could down the beanstalk, got home safe to his scruffy flat.

The little brown hen laid so many golden eggs that Jack and his mother had now more money than ever but the vodka, designer clothes and bling took their toll once more so, one day, afraid of getting caught stealing or even selling himself in train station toilets, Jack crept out of the window again, and climbed up, and up, and up, and up, until he reached the top.

This time he decided he would have none of that ugly, beastly woman on the doorstep malarkey; so he crept round to the back of the castle, and when the giant’s wife went out to the shed, full of Tennents Super, he slipped into the kitchen and hid himself in the oven. In came the giant, roaring louder than ever:

“Fee, fum, fi, fo;
I smell the blood of a young ASBO;
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I’ll bust his teeth and jump on his head!”

But the giantess was quite sure that she had seen no little boys that morning; and after grumbling a great deal, the giant sat down to breakfast. Even then he was not quite satisfied, for every now and again he would mumble:

“Fee, fum, fi, fo;
I smell the blood of a young ASBO.”

and once he even got up and looked in the kettle. But, of course, Jack was in the oven all the time.

When the giant had finished, he called out: “Wife, bring me the golden harp!”  So she brought in the golden harp, and placed it on the table, turned round and knocked her fifth can of Tennents over the rug. “Wife, you are a drunken bint” said the giant, “start sobering up and get the dinner on or something.  I’m bloody starving!”  Seconds later the harp began to sing the most beautiful songs that ever were heard. It sang so sweetly that the giant soon fell fast asleep, flagon of ale in his hand; then Jack crept quietly out of the oven, and going on tiptoe to the table, seized hold of the golden harp. But the harp at once called out: “Master! Master!” and the giant woke up just in time to catch sight of Jack legging it out of the kitchen-door.

With a fearful roar, he seized his oak-tree club, and dashed after Jack, who held the harp tight, and ran faster than he had ever run before.

“Sod the bleedin’ fags, I need to stop smoking” thought Jack, out of breath after the first fifty yards.  The giant, brandishing his club, and taking massive strides, gained on Jack with every step, who would have been caught if the giant had not tripped over a case of Tennents his wife had hidden, half-buried in the ground.  Before he could pick himself up, Jack began to climb down the beanstalk, and by the time the giant arrived at the edge he was nearly half-way to the horrible, dingy flat he called home.

The giant, not only pissed but also very pissed off, began to climb down too; but as soon as Jack saw him coming, he called out: “Oi Mum, bring us the can of petrol we wanted to burn old Mr. Jacobs from number 76 with!” and the single mother, pissed as a fart but thinking about the longevity of her vodka supply, came out with a gallon of unleaded and a box of Swan Vestas.  Jack had no sooner reached the ground than he chucked the petrol all over the base of the beanstalk and lit a match.  WHOOSH! went the beanstalk, along with Jack’s eyebrows and down came the giant with a terrible crash and made a huge hole in the ground, big enough to be buried in, which is precisely what Jack and his mother did after they went through his rather large pockets to see what they could find, which, apart from a snotty hanky that would have made a bedspread, was nothing.  What became of the giantess and the castle nobody knows, but Jack now had enough money to start dealing, taking over from where his father once left off whilst his mother could now drink enough to be able to spend one month in and three months out of the Betty Ford clinic.  It is supposed they lived happy ever after, especially after moving up-market from Clapham Junction to Tooting Bec. 

The Snowball Effect

I’m sat next to my brief.  My shirt’s the same one I had on yesterday but I’m sure no-one notices.  I have the same, now well-rumpled suit I’ve been wearing throughout my trial; well, they’re not exactly going to let me out shopping at Armani for the day are they?  My shoes are pretty clean though, which is more than I can say for my defence.

The jury has retired for verdict.  My heart is pumping blood at a normal rate around my body.  I’m calm.  What else can I be?  I just look ahead.  I don’t want to see anyone.

They think I killed them all.  Sometimes I think I killed them all.  Sometimes however I believe I only actually killed just one person that day.  For his death they just need to decide whether it was premeditated.  How do you define premeditated?  How long does an action have to be considered and thought-out before becoming premeditated?  5 minutes? An hour?  A day?  I know I didn’t leave the house that morning to walk the dog through the woods, which are separated by a noisy motorway, with the intention to kill someone.  By the time I came home however I was a guilty man.

The prosecution have made a meal out of the fact that I’ve shown no remorse.  I’m not an actor; I can’t show what I don’t have.  Anyway, what came after was an accident, with no intention whatsoever.  However, they don’t see it like that.  They don’t seem to understand the metaphorical snowball effect and all that.  If I hadn’t have rolled that little snowball from the top of the mountain, there wouldn’t have been an avalanche in the valley below, so to speak.  I can sort of see their point, the trouble is they can’t see mine.

Memory can be a bastard.  Why can’t I remember someone’s name from one day to the next yet the filing cabinet of the mind throws out memories from years ago without warning and just at the wrong moment, like when I saw the kid on the bridge.  Some of you might remember this.  I do.  I was a teenager during the miner’s strike back in ‘84 but I still clearly remember how shocked I was when some miners dropped a kerbstone from a bridge at a passing taxi taking a scab to work.  It left me cold then and leaves me cold now.  What a horrible way to die.

So when I saw that kid hoist up to his waist a broken lump of wall, I flipped.  He was so intent on choosing his target that he didn’t see me come down the footpath, pick up a fist-sized flint and step on the bridge.  The block was resting on the handrail of the bridge, against his stomach while he chose his victim. Then I saw what he was waiting for; an Esso petrol tanker was making its way down the slow lane.   I had to stop him.  I threw the stone.

I guess the truck driver saw the kid’s intention as I heard the air horn blare below me.  Too late.  The stone hit the lad in the head.  The lad’s legs gave way as blood poured from his temple.  The brickwork tipped forward with the momentum, his grip didn’t loosen.  Both concrete and kid were gone in a second.  I heard the truck’s brakes howl.  Have you ever noticed how a car’s brakes will squeal in an emergency stop?  A 38 tonne truck’s howl and what a God-awful noise it is, I can still hear it in the long nights in my cell, when sleep evades me.

I felt, rather than saw, the movement of the jack-knifed trailer as it separated from the cab and passed at speed under the bridge, swatting cars like summer flies.  It then hit the central reservation, flip on its end and over, and explode into the oncoming traffic.  The force of the blast rocked the bridge and knocked me to the ground.  The dog came off worse.  She scarpered into the trees from where we’d come from but when I finally found her she was dead.  Internal injuries I suppose.  I cried then.  I showed emotion then.  The families of the 14 that never made it back home that night wouldn’t give a toss about that but then again, why would they?

The jury’s back.  You 9 men and 3 women: penny for your thoughts?  Why am I asking?  It’s the judge that wants to know if they’ve reached a verdict.  They have.  He nods his head slowly.  Putting on his small, wireframe glasses he tells me to stand.

My lifetime freedom for an accident.  I guess the 3 seconds it took me to pick up that stone counts as premeditated.

Post Navigation