Wednesday, December 26, 2007


“Fer what’s that red dots on the floor” …”What red dots?” “all those following us”, My eyes turned down and I noticed red small splatters of red all stretching out in a path, the path I take every Tuesday morning around 7:30 am, as I clutch my fist holding tight that little hand that holds a treasure known as my littlest sibling, her eyes are affixed on the red. I begin to wonder is it oil, paint, and then I notice its dark red resemblance to drip up blood, it’s a blood trail. To no surprise it comes, after all its been about every other day that I hear that loud rumbling, the dogs screeching and barking as the sprits roam the streets, you know they say that animals can see the angel of death. So as I walk my little angel I tell her is blood, I mean I wanted to say it was paint, that some great painter spilled his paint, that some known cook was running with oil and spilled it trying to put it on his sauté, But no this isn’t small America in the suburbs, I say its blood. She says why? I tell her do you remember the gunshots, she nods and says did someone die. I tell her maybe no, that someone managed to run and bled a little that they got home on time. I would like to think that I can walk that path at all times at never see the blue and reds lighting the streets like fourth of July, or I can walk and never hear the sound of a nine millimeter sealing someone’s death note. But no, this is my home…

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