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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Dream World Presents: Ode to the Baby Killersdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: ollie_wicked
    ASL Info:    27?FEarth
    Elite Ratio:    4.02 - 320/200/90
    Words: 835
    Class/Type: Misc/Misc
    Total Views: 932
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 4524



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    dotsDream World Presents: Ode to the Baby Killersdots
    -------------------------------------------


    Mark and I were shopping at the Malvern Wal-Mart, getting a few things for this party we were going to. You know the essentials, red solo cups and ice. I find that I’m the friendliest person to strangers, especially ones who have to put up with rude people’s bullshit, i
    check out clerks. So I do my usual polite dance, “Hi how are you? Busy today?” ect. Then she starts going on about how this girl is on the loose. A 15 year old who drowned her four younger siblings. She escaped from Alexandria and came back to her home town, but the police are unable to locate her. I said, “Oh wow. I don’t understand someone who could do something like that to children, let alone their siblings.” Clerk,” Yea completely psycho.”

    Leaving the store, I thought about all the other people in the news I’d heard about who do such atrocities to babies. I work at a Children’s hospital and am privy to close encounters of DHS cases. So I’ve seen my fair share of abuse that can cause death. I just cannot fathom the mindset one would need. But knowing my macabre self, I remember how fascinating and disgusting I find this process of the human break down.

    Arriving to the party, I notice it’s at this old guy’s house and his old lady. They look like Malvern white trash. His empty bottles, with one in the right, and her black eye, struggling to hold her bad habits. I notice lots of pictures on the wall, but no children. “Maybe they’re just at their grandma’s. Surprised these people would give a shit about what their children see.” The party progresses as all parties do: dancing, drugs, and passing out.
    Everyone is crashed on top of each other and outside, where ever they can find a spot. Down. I’m drifting in and out of sleep, when I hear something like a pop gun. I laugh to myself. Drunkards are so hilarious, being one myself. I hear it a couple more times, then screaming. A woman screaming at the top of her lungs, blood curdling cries. It’s the old lady. “There she is, there’s my baby killer.” I put it together, the photos, no kids, “baby killer”.

    This forlorn creature, cloaked in the night of mischief and misery. She takes aim with her sniper type weapon, with a pop bottle she seems to replace to mask the sound and continue the massacre. The bloodshed continues. Mark and I race to the house to take cover, unsure why this is the house we chose for merriment.
    The girl loosens from her superior position, meticulously walking, taking aim, killing. Until she happens upon the party’s host: the white trash man. She looks at him and smiles. I felt a sort of connection with her at this moment. She began to tell her story.

    About 2 years ago her mother had met a man. He was well to do, church going man. He never swore in public, never cast a hand. He was a financial accountant for the Stephen’s company in Little Rock. He chose her mother because she was the talk of this small town, where he had been raised. They married and life was as it should be for a mother who had such a hard time with four children.

    Then the man lost his job and reputation. “We all know how men get when they lose those,” said the girl. He began raping his wife, and coming in to the children’s rooms at night. Save for the girl, she had been spared due to her awkward age for the man, not child, yet not woman. She hated herself for this, and hated him all the more for his incredulous acts towards her brothers and sister.

    The social workers could do nothing. Her mother could or would not leave. They were stuck in this sort of hell. Forced to live their lives out in the day as if everything were still the same, but living nights of terror and desperation. Months of this went by, until the girl snapped. She wanted to save her siblings, but couldn’t conjure how. It came to her. She must end their lives. Not her mother’s, but theirs. She could stay with the man with her bad habits and live that life, but not them.

    So one night, while the parents were out, she took them to the creek by their house. She ended it: the cycle of night and day. She kissed them as she helped them leave. Hoping she would see them on the other side.
    I felt glad when she put the gun to his head. Glad that this monster wouldn’t be in this world. Glad that she had been able to obtain her revenge. She acted upon the white trash man and his old lady. Finally, herself.


    The end.




    Submitted on 2013-05-02 00:03:09     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      Ah the grace of revenge. For me this brings to mind the large number of people in this world who don't deserve to live. Makes me want to crank up the decadent arrogance, get into some diabolically maniacal dementia, and put on the brusque macabre abrupt. It's like, down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue, estranged ensemble orchestration and all. In short I feel right at home with your extraversion embezzlement of a euthanasia extortion. Strike fear in the heart of the enemy. I leave you with a reminiscent image of a poster I had on my wall as a college student; Two vultures sitting in a tree....the caption?? "Patience my ass, I'm gonna kill something!" Dream on my friend!!!

    Bruce
    | Posted on 2013-05-02 00:00:00 | by monad | [ Reply to This ]


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