The Uses of Salt

Superstitions are interesting, aren’t they? Knock on wood, cross your fingers. Little rituals, attempts to make a pattern out of chaos.

Jewish tradition says that touching salt is unlucky. The littlest finger brings poverty. Thumbs bring the death of one’s children.

I must have been clumsy with my thumbs, huh? Well, you ought to know; you were the instrument.

The index finger, now, placed into salt—like so—makes one into a murderer.

It’s meaningless, of course. A ritual. Something to help me make sense of things, to help me prepare for what comes next.

Are you ready?

Too bad.

Old Books

Tomkins pried the lid from the wooden shipping crate. A puff of sawdust filled the air. He tugged the first book free and tore away the wrapping. There was something scrawled beside Frederiksen's name on the frontispiece.

"Tomkins - I know you'll find a way to steal my library once I'm gone, and I know your part in my passing. I wanted you to know. I have won."

There was a rustling sound and the smell of musty paper. Something massive loomed behind him, blocking the light.

The shipping crate, still nailed shut, eventually sold at auction for a pittance.

The Murder God

He shares his gifts freely. The good news is for everyone.

Tag! You're it!

Some souls live entire lifetimes without the revelation of their part in the game. They dwell in peace and contentment, which their former brothers regard with horror and pity. They have lost their joy.

Tag! Knives next!

The memory of a soul is long. They remember their allies. They remember their enemies. Everyone has a chance to free another from the flesh-prison.

Tag! You are free! Free to see your next role in the game. Remember me, brother, when you return, and grant me the same!

Flesh of Stone, Bones of Iron

A lot of murders don't ever get solved. It's just part of the cost of civilization and industry, the side effects of having so many people in one place at one time and accomplishing everything that we accomplish. The city is alive, in a way.

The city is killing them.

The others shrug it off. They can't stop it, and so they don't try. I tried to save people, for a while. Medicine, security, legislation; nothing addressed the underlying problems.

There is one way to achieve justice, an old way. The only problem is: how do you kill a city?

Sticks and Stones

"So what killed him?"

Astrid clenched her teeth and tamped down on her anger, restraining her initial sharp retort. "I've been here five minutes, Paulson." Paulson flinched as her response bit, drawing blood. "Look, I'm sorry. It's been a rough night." She modulated her tone carefully, soothed away the mark on Paulson's cheek.

She turned back to the body. Neck snapped. Bruises. Bones nearly pulped.

"Blunt force," she said. "Nasty. 'Loser,' maybe. 'Failure.' Haven't seen words hit like this since that sociopath Cowell was put away."

"People don't think," said Paulson.

"Or they think too much. That's half the problem."

Prompt: Stalked by the Avenger of Blood (Numbers 35:16)

Inspired by a prompt from Loren Eaton

---

He who kills a man with a metal weapon, he will meet me and I shall pierce his heart. He who kills a man with a stone, he will meet me and I shall sink him down. He who kills a man with a wooden tool, he will meet me and I will crush his bones.

Metal, stone, and wood; you have touched none of these. You said nothing. You did nothing.

You have murdered with nothing. You have killed with words.

You will meet me, and I will speak your name.

I am blood. Hear my voice.

Powered by Podbean.com