Scrap #1

“What are you afraid of?”

Myself.”

Advertisements

The Wait

She sat silently, waiting, looking out the window towards the brick laden path surrounded by green, neatly trimmed hedges which led to the front gate. The gate, barely visible, shrouded by fog and smoke, led out to the main road. The road, she thought. Always crowded, bustling, full of chirp, noise and life. But not today. Today was different.
A tear rolled down her cheek. She choked a sob and cleared her throat. She could still hear people screaming, scurrying, wailing for help, dying.
They had come unannounced. Like predators, soft and silent in the dark of night. Machines and men, cold-blooded, full of pure evil, shooting and bombing, killing the innocent. She could still hear them screaming, gunfire ringing in her ears.
She waited, for news of a man she may never see again, her husband. But she couldn’t lose hope. The sound of a car cleared her thoughts. She straightened her hair, rearranged her clothes. A dark black sedan pulled up in front of the gate. An old man, wearing a black pin-striped suit, with a white beard and a black hat came through the gate. His eyes were full of tears and he looked like he hadn’t slept in months. She ran out through the door and stopped in front of him, expectantly, searching for answers in his eyes. There were none. He took of  his hat and bowed his head, as if in mourning. She cried.
The waiting was over.

The Perfect Homicide

Bereft of footprints,
of Monsters and Men
Void of screams,
of movement within

Baffled,
No likelihood of loss or gain,
Much like Alfred Hitchcock’s
Strangers on a Train

No sight of a weapon,
Not a hair out of place
A murderer’s heaven,
An ever changing face

Laughter,
Etched on the face of the dead
No sign of injury,
Except a whack on the head

A viable alibi,
The possibilities are endless
A witness shy,
The other, knocked senseless

Not a single clue,
Or a resounding cry
Not a single lead,
The Perfect Homicide.