Tag: murder series

The Follower

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I remember playing my piano a little too loud that gray evening,

And I remember singing along to every song about pain and grieving.

The snowflakes danced into my room with their frozen smirks,

But the cold spared me as the night came to be just like clockwork.

All the candles on the windowsill swayed along to my lyrics.

Still, the stars blinked distantly like some world-renowned cynics.

And I do not remember hearing you enter my tiny apartment,

Looking like imminent death, ready to finish what has been started.

Your boots left wet and guilty footprints on my beige floors,

You smashed the mirror on my closet, the one I have always adored.

I knew that you looked familiar, and god knows – I remembered

Your face popping up everywhere I went since the last December.

The grin and your bloodshot eyes said it all, but I acted confused,

Like I have never noticed you, never heard you calling me a muse.

“Let me amuse you,” you said while approaching me awfully slowly,

Knowing far too well I am the furthest thing from someone holy.

I remember taking the candles to the curtains, lighting them up,

And I remember you protesting, weakly trying to interrupt.

The wind fanned the flames and they roared with unrestrainable force,

But the heat spared me while it made your voice fragile and hoarse.

With smoke in your eyes, you ran right into my fuming trap.

I pushed you right into the fire, and the flames ran in laps.

The yellow, red, and orange consumed you in a matter of moments.

I really wonder if you ever noticed all the bad luck omens.

-Jackie

Betray Me Once

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Dug a hole in the ground for my baby.

“Betray me once and we’re in the clear,

Shoot me trice and you can no longer blame me.”

Your emerald eyes turn moldy in fear.

Or is it the decomposition?

Difficult to tell when the end’s so near,

Difficult to let go of the friction.

The lonely road nearby watches in silence,

My only co-conspirator in these times,

The only safe bet through this sea of violence.

My father told me to never speak of my crimes.

But I differ, I’m singing this one like a ballad

And selling my soul for six dimes.

So, I’m off to the next town as you grow pallid.

You’ll be cold and forgotten before I cross the state lines.

And they were right to warn you about the pretty lady,

You never should’ve started the strife.

Dug a hole in the ground for my baby.

“Betray me first and I’ll lower the knife,

Cut me trice and you’ll never play me again,

You’ll be done with your life.”

-JW

Scarlet Rhymes

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Your brain, it dictates you dark poetry.

Come and carve an artwork out of me.

I bleed black when you cut me open.

Baby, I’ve long been broken

Far beyond repair –

So don’t try to fixate on the just or the fair.

Cut away until there’s only an inky void left.

“Robbing me of breath is not a theft.”

Do your worst,

I’m neither your last nor your first.

Clean your knives without any guilt,

Don’t mind the guts that I’ve willingly spilled.

Trap my essence in a whiskey bottle,

Hide the mottle.

You need not worry when you fall asleep.

It wasn’t a creak,

It was only the wind in the attic.

Go ahead, close your eyes to the sound of static.

You didn’t hear the bottle break,

These days nightmares feel far from fake.

And the sound of blades getting sharpened

Shouldn’t make you this disheartened.

So don’t turn your head left.

“Robbing me of breath is not a theft.”

It is, however, a neon red perfidy

And, my dear, respectably and cursedly

You’ll bleed blue in your gilded sheets

Until your tongue is out of cheats.

My brain will dictate me scarlet rhymes

As it carves sense out of your senseless crimes.

-JW

The Runner

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Sweat dripping down her chin as her warm breath vaporizes the winter air –

She’s the obnoxious type, insidious gaze and long tightly braided hair.

The smell of her floral deodorant is making me nauseous to the bone

So I watch her pass me from the onyx shadows, I want to get her alone.

She runs up the small hill and disappears for some time, have I lost her?

I’m fidgeting a cigarette bud between my fingers like an inept mobster.

Seven minutes pass and I hear her approaching the park again, I freeze.

A sigh of relief escapes my lips. I ready my fists to deal with this tease.

I’ve noticed her running by my windows ever since the last Christmas eve,

With her smouldering looks, with her black shoes, her heart of a thief.

It wasn’t attraction or passion, it was this beastlike, even primal desire

To choke her ashen, making the tip of her tongue burn with an ungodly fire.

So I wait where the streetlights can’t expose my pale complexion,

I shiver with anticipation as her feet cross the nearby intersection.

The closer her rhythmic steps come, the louder my right ear rings.

I even imagine someone finding her body when the first birds sing.

As she steps out of the light and into the poorly lit corner of the park

My arms reach for her shoulders – but there’s nobody in the dark.

Surprised I turn around, I spin like a lost child left alone in the mall.

Then I see it – right where the pathway emerges from the duskiness,

She stands staring, reminding me of a haunted doll.

I scream but no one hears my call.

-JW

Thirteen Cold Cases And Other Tales: Prologue

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A rural area in the middle of Who-Gives-A-Damn is shocked

As thirteen people go missing within a bone chilling quarter.

The closet doors are blocked, the guts never seem to rot.

The locals would leave the county if they were any smarter.

The cold cases pile up on the table, almost tipping over.

Everyone puts on a mask of care, everyone knew a goner,

And people are faking sympathy for each unlucky rover…

Funny how only among the hunters they fear so much

There remains some honor.

A rural area in the middle of Nowhere & Never is enraged

After police discovers a mass grave in an abandoned house.

The place belonged to a woman using alias Fiona K. Sage.

In the grave they discovered her missing neighbor’s blouse.

The cold cases come crashing down, only fools keep looking.

Years pass, the locals turn faked grief into greedy ghost stories.

Tourists pour over the area, they fight to make a booking,

While the three hunters carry on snatching visitors

Without any worries.

-JW

#13 The Man In Red

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They keep telling me she’s gone, they keep messing with my head.

They want me to cry but I stay overly rowdy and sinister instead.

The gruesome crew I’ve been hunting with asks for revenge –

We keep discovering clues, we keep losing our leads to the stench.

We hear she’s been seen with a man in red in these streets.

That’s not enough to prosecute but he’ll speak if he bleeds.

Once the clock strikes seven PM we emerge from the masks.

No one in this town crosses our way once it’s finally dusk.

Not many people out at this hour, not many challenge their faith.

The huntress walks the southside alone acting as our bait.

I stay back lying in wait, scanning figures and dancing shadows.

Green-eyes is in her Cadillac, she reads the scene like cheap prose.

The fourth night arrives through coffee, nicotine and energy drinks.

The breezy weather shakes my senses, the hopelessness stings.

Despite the drowsiness, we hear a door swinging open close by.

A muffled sound, a kick, sheen of a car and an audible sigh.

We close in on the target – red coat, a lean figure and slight limp.

Tied up by his side is my sacred lamb, she’s not noticing a thing.

The others beg me to wait but I race forward like a starving beast.

Not a man in red – that goddamn woman I thought was deceased!

Oh Lizzy, Lizzy, how you’ve once again wronged me to death.

You told me I should try harder this time

While losing your breath.

-JW

#11 The Lonely Bones

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Dig, cut, wrap, clean, repeat. Another hole, another dead seed.

We’re hiding truths like normal people do, we plant what we need.

Dig, cut, wrap, clean, repeat. Push harder to cut off the feet.

Bury, smoothen, cover. Another body, another dead lover.

We’re escaping the destiny by hiding all that’s discovered.

Bury, smoothen, cover. We killed you and we killed your brother.

Sharpen, crush, growl some more. Another bruise, some shiny gore.

We’re tied in our count but who’s keeping a score?

Sharpen, crush, growl some more. Go faster to win the war.

Drink, celebrate, rest, cheer. Another pit of lonely bones sealed.

We’re gnarly inside and out, we’re the burnable breed.

Drink, celebrate, rest, cheer. Another pint to the terror we wield.

-JW

#5 The Sacred Lamb

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An expanding knot in my stomach before I even open the front door –

I sense the tension, the held back cries, the hope shattered on our floors.

My weak limbs pull themselves over the doorstep, I’m covered in dirt.

Yesterday three of my closest friends went missing, no one’s yet heard.

I’ve got an alibi three towns south, but did the escapee break the news?

That girl Vicky’s yet to apologize for the friction and pay what’s due.

But the look on my father’s face is more than pity or any other sadness –

Shatters of his very heart lay all over our place, growing in their vastness.

My brother’s there too, he holds me for far too long before I realize

My younger sister’s missing…

No amount of tears can suffice.

Taken, she’s been taken, someone took her. That’s all I really hear.

I hope this someone has the guts to face my painful fury, oh dear.

My feet take me out of the house, all across the putrid hometown.

I’ve heard of this gracious green-eyed beast making her rounds.

The lady’s deadlier than I’ll ever be but what’s the point of my pride?

The plain street I walk down has one eccentric house – I’m down for the ride.

Her seven inch heels click on the surfaces before she lets me in –

Beautiful, eloquent, well-reversed and funny, clearly deadly as sin.

While I don’t mind the corpses in her garden, she doesn’t mind my intrusion.

There’s common sense even between the worst of ghouls with no illusions.

We strike a deal as her fairy-tale clock strikes three in the afternoon.

I promise to give her a hand with her garden,

She promises to become one of my goons.

-JW

#9 The Gathering Of The Ghouls

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My anger pours out of every stitch as I slam my wine glass on the table.

No amount of cursing will scratch the itch firing through my bugged cables.

The wiring’s off, throw out the plans and gather around this failed attempt.

Two people have escaped our rightful anger, nobody else can be exempt.

The huntress puts stainless steel blades in her belt, her caution is paper thin.

The green-eyed bitch of the rural streets perfectly applies her own skin.

I watch in terror as my own image disappears and reappears in reflections.

We’re ready to comb the town and kill everyone daring to walk our direction.

I shrug and rest my palm on the cold gun besides the shattered wine glass.

Can’t hide it as more and more questions near me through the grass.

The bottle’s done and my team of revolting human waste looks right at me.

They know as well as I do – we must kill the witness to finally be happy.

What comes next is pre-written: we slash each other’s throats for hours

Until only one claims this shabby town the three of us have called ours.

As the night swallows our bodies within its charcoal veils, my back straightens.

The one who fled escaped painless grave, but she can’t escape the Satan.

-JW

#3 The Meeting

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She escaped a gruesome death and a poisoning attempt, she escaped.

Somehow despite all the odds and favors I called in, she escaped.

They ushered me away as she jumped right in front of moving cars.

My limp pride carried itself out of the scene under the sparkly stars.

We finished the job but the high of the deed never rushed my system.

She ran away even though she was the least weary and persistent.

The time is not our friend at this point, we cut right through the forest.

Pearly moon is lightning the path, the sight is nothing but modest,

And the peace doesn’t last long, there are steps behind us closing in.

My patience is on the edge, and the edge is far less than paper thin.

I turn and pull out a gun, unable to let another foolish witness slide.

The darkness behind me is blinding, the night tastes like anthracite,

Yet I know a creeper when I hear one so I march towards the sound,

Trigger finger ready to swim in the ecstasy of firing the round.

There’s a blade in my face held by a stranger, my barrel’s aimed at her.

What a standoff – the moon is making the hesitation more severe.

The seconds tick away but we don’t move a muscle in our faces.

How do I tell her “we have a common goal, let’s slow our paces”?

Somehow she reads my distasteful thoughts, the knife is removed.

As she offers me her palm saying:

“No need to harm a fellow hunter, my name’s Ramone.”

-JW