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.

Tit for Tat

Look, lady, no hard feelings or nothing. We didn't particularly want to knock over your apartment, you understand. We're freelance.

I wouldn't call us construction workers, no. We're sort of in the construction business, but more the other end of it.

"Wreck" is a little harsh. "Deconstruction," maybe. Yeah, we're freelance deconstructionists, and somebody wanted that building down.

Naw, I don't know who. Someone back at the home office could probably tell you. I'll put you in touch.

Sure, names and addresses. Public info, per the user agreement.

You'd be surprised. We get most of our business that way, actually.

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.

Missed Opportunity

When his chores were done, Droog spent his time hating the Master. It was easy; the Master did not exert much effort to make himself lovable. His castle was dark, damp, and full of screams. Droog's plans were complicated by the fact that no weapons were allowed within the Master's castle, but he was sure he would find a way, sooner or later.

When Droog found the Master lying dead, he was a little taken aback. There was no sign of who had done it; just the gently spreading pool of blood.

Droog shrugged and began to scrub the floors.

Red-Fingered Dawn

The hurled pinecone knocked the wide-brimmed hat from the Old Crow's head. He spun, and the children tensed, hoping for one of his legendary rants about the Burning Eye and its search for him.

Instead, he fell to his knees, wringing his heavy black robe. "It sees me!" he cried, eyes locked on the cloudless sky. "God help me, it knows!"

When eventually they broke into his cottage, they found the robe on the floor, surrounded by the most peculiar burn marks. Everyone agreed that the wind had blown soot from the fireplace in that distressing fashion. Stranger things happen...

Shame Not to Use the Rope and All

"Has to end this way, does it, Victor?"

Eli was chatty now I had the noose around his neck. "Seems that way."

"What'd I ever do to you, Victor? Don't pretend this is about the law; you've got just as much paper on you."

"Other'n shoot my horse?"

"That was fer cheatin' at cards!"

"You stole that cash from me inna first place. Eli, let's not do this." I checked the knot. Good and tight.

"What, you want to go out friendly-like?"

"Naw. I'd just hate to waste a good revenge killin' if it turns out t'be my own fault."

Cold Winter Night

It was a cold, hard night when Eli Walston came back from the grave. Suitable, I reckon, as Eli was as cold and hard a whoreson as ever I hung from a tree. I rode out to meet him.

"Victor."

"Eli. Cold night fer it."

He shrugged.

"Settle this over drinks and cards?"

"No."

I scratched under my hat. "One thing I cain't figger, Eli."

"What's that?"

"Why're you so anxious for my company? You shot at me fer a reason."

"Sonuvabitch." Eli paused. "Cards and whiskey, you said?"

"Trixie'll stay open if'n I ask."

Eli nodded. "Cold out, anyhow."

Ends Well

...always there, now, the rotten wood and clutching weeds, the smell of frogspawn and stagnant water. The tiny knothole in the slime-blacked cover! A hole. A hole into darkness, a hole into the hole in the pit in the shadow in the wet and muck...

I smell it. It won't be long now.

That is how his diary ends. I would believe he was unbalanced, except that I was there when we three first found the well as children. Even now I can hear the soft croaking of the frogs and smell the first hints of mildew on the wind...

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

Inspired by a prompt from Loren Eaton

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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.

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