Monday, August 12, 2013

                The Girl with the Pink Shoes
            Her movements were so fluid, the silk on her shoes reflected the sun making them blinding to look at.  Something about her felt sickly familiar, yet I couldn't quite grasp what. I studied her every movement, from the way she bounced right before she went on point to the way she blushed, and tucked an invisible piece of hair behind her ear when the people applauded.
I found my heart racing in anticipation as her eyes lit up at the start of the song and when the end of the song by the end of it she had a smile as bright as the sun.  I must have stayed there for at least an hour until she was done, I walked up, dropped a few dollars in an upturned hat and winked, whistling a short melodic tune, I turned away and headed back up the street.  She can’t say I never warned her, I had given her my song she had been warned and I had my next target. 

            Now most associate spontaneous murders as ‘an act of passion’ well I must say that I disagree entirely.  All my acts of suicidal murders are dripping with passion but they are always well planned, and thought out, there is nothing spontaneous about them.  But passion never came without a little sweat.  Murders take a lot of planning and for that it requires a lot of research which is why the internet is by far one of the most wonderful inventions; it definitely makes my career easier. It did not take long to find out almost everything I wanted to know about my street dancer; Coritha lee Johnson, a fitted name for a beauty such as herself, a fitted name for a victim.

Friday, July 26, 2013

To my detested, and in full sarcasm ‘beloved’ parents,
            You once told me to never lose my temper because it leads to dangerous actions.  Well, I must ruefully admit I have lost my temper, and for the life of me I can’t get it back.  Perhaps you know where it is?  After all, you were there the night it ran away from me; the same night my sister left me; or do you not remember starting that fire?  Perhaps you remember the way she screamed, only stopping because she chocked on the thick smoke; or the smell of her burnt perfect brown curls? As it may be you don’t, but I do. I saw you take her soul, little by little with fear until you just ended it.  You called yourself our parents, yet you were the monsters she feared when she went to bed, not the ones in the closet. I held her and whistled for her as she trembled in her covers of what you would do next.  People like you don’t deserve to live.  So I will take from your kind what you took from me.
Now now don’t fret, I am not one of those mindless psychopathic killers, in fact I’m not even a murder, but mark my words I will make you feel such agonizing pain that you will gratefully take your own life. If you don’t believe me by all means keep reading and you will see just what I am capable of.  No need to watch your back you will hear my song when I am coming for you, for I am The Whistler and I don’t take lives, I take souls.

-Your resentful son,
The Whistler