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Birth Of A Name: CaitlinBirth Of A Name
"Well, would you look at that. Our own little killer has returned. Haha. It's good to see you again Cat." The man behind the bar happily greeted one of the most feared assassins in the country. and he dared to not use her full name. The tavern owner knew no bounds. "So, been getting your hands dirty this evening?"
The hired knife wielder looked at him and smiled a toothy smile. "But of course. I've had three clients tonight. It's been a very good night." She spoke with an almost eerie softness. She had the voice of one who could not know violence. That was one of her greatest advantages.
"And it's not even midnight." He laughed as he handed her a fresh mug of mead. "So, are you here on business?" he took on a more serious attitude when he asked this. If there was going to be a hit in his shop, he at least wanted to know about it.
"Sort of. I need to see if anyone needs my expertise."
"What? Three not good enough?"
"Not tonight, Alechay.
why i can't just move on.What could have been
So, I've been thinking about my father,
No my mom or my dad,
But that asshole that left.
He is why I'm mad.
He left me and my mom,
Just after I was born,
And now he is the cause
Of my more recent scorn.
I tried not to think of him,
I tried to forget,
How he showed me no love,
Only hate and contempt.
They say to get move on,
The past is the past
But they will never understand,
Why this feeling will last.
I don't blame them,
How could they know?
Because they've always had a dad,
They've never felt this mad.
A dad that would be with them
One that would love and would stay.
They've never had to wonder,
If he might come back one day.
They've never sat in their room,
And wondered why.
They've never blamed themselves,
And started to cry.
They've never asked
"is it better this way?
Did I really even
Want him to stay?"
They don't know
How it feels to go without
Or how it feels
To enter everyday with doubt.
Because I have blamed myself
And they have not,
And I have had to mo
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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