Filthy scatters in the brush, with the severed hand flopping about ready to land in the bowl of dirt soup at the edge of the group. With a step and a pace quick to the beat of misery, she hands out the dead meat like a dwarf running up a hill made of marshmallow.
Her mere presence is the stuff of legend, reading off the cues and visions of others before to determine her mark and her bite. What she brings, nobody wants, nobody needs, nobody cares for. She is the bringer of death and his sickly bed, pus filled with the sheets encrusted in void sperm.
White and awash with a green hue baked into the sun's brown eye lash, the trivial matters of life only fall away by the side when she sidesteps into a foxtrot.
They who are most careful are only worried about being next. When nobody will talk of you after you've gone. That is the fact of life into death and the biggest screams rupture enough eardrums to at least render an impact.
No maam, not today, thank you kindly.
Written on Wednesday, 4 April 2007