Chapter One: Abandoned Soul
It was a cold October fall in 1859, just after a good and steady rain. The night had settled in and the air was crisp and most certainly clean. A light fog had lingered its way through the young, weeping willow trees from just beneath the prestige landscapes atmosphere. I will never forget the late Mrs. Evelyn Craton standing there with an emotionless approach at the edge of that damn pond. Slightly morning, she plummets to the ground chanting a few medieval prayers in a silent whisper of despair as she just could not help to bother morning the loss of her daughter, she had thought to herself. Kneeling down just before the water’s edge, she ever so gently and coarsely kisses a faintly wilted white rose with caress that was crisply cut from her garden just before nightfall and proceeds to toss it in the silent blood red pond almost as if it were in slow motion. This same abandoned pond is secretly and spiritually known too many locals as “bloods creek” passed down from beyond previous generations. Little Gracie Joan Craton, age six had been brutally bashed in the skull repeatedly with a rock and finally drowned by her thought to be father imminently after their previous dispute. Mr. Richard James Craton found out that he was not the young girl’s father during her previous first breaths of life as he grew quite often bothered of this scenario from time to time. She was born and had rebirth as a mixed black and white baby. The late Mrs. Evelyn Craton had had a repeated affair with one of the captured slaves and became his escort and”lady friend” of some sort of degree if you will.
Richard had watched her through his darkened bedroom window and in his weakened fierce moment he limped himself outside towards the wood shed, about to turn his wife into a widowed victim of defeat! Raging and stumbling through all the features of tools and random working materials only to finally stumble upon a hatchet just underneath an old rotting mattress. Grabbing it with an unfaltering grasp of greed within his two sweaty palms, he hurried to his unfortunate wife’s side by the darkened pond. It had then begun raining abruptly as the heat lightening had lit up the quieted easy skies in the near distance ever so appropriately. He looked down towards his wife with an endless loving approach within their stare as he slowly began to kneel down beside her for some sort of convectional and emotionally, comfortable bond of some sort. He then, within minutes: stood up posses singly laughing aloud, and with an unstoppable force he violently swings the all mighty hatchet as it cringed into the forehead of his lovers destiny as scattered blood flies across the freshly cut bluish/green grass just before the sacred pond. She then lied crippled with a slowly fading struggle for air. Every last grasp she could possibly utter, she tried to inhale the sweet breath of life up until her final collapse.
On this day my girlfriend’s diary read: “In this waste of breath I am trying to recover past and how it fell on you. I’m her reflective side hands tied behind my back when doing write always has me screwed. I trusted your evil eyes and I trusted your luscious eyes and now it blankets my blues. Once more it’s never forever again, do not ever be my best friend. My ex has a bad case of ignoring it all. Your skull boy shorts are on my Victorian dance floor as your bra is spinning around my ceiling fan as I watched you sleeping in. I made you breakfast in bed, hey let’s get matching tattoos, and then we’ll head off to our”private room” our private rooms. You said that live is made to order well then I’ll take what I can get and dress us up with lost poets… Dress us up in lost poets. Kiss and make up I wished we would break up. I will bring the cheese if you could bring in the wine it will be a hell of a first date picnics still the cheapest to find and so much for our “happy ending” when this love lives far too long. The cemeteries still the safest place to play our song.
I’m your ghost and everyone is home now except for you. Rest in peace and please do not write me for we are through. A miss guided trust although our friendships enough to preach this news. Everyone is saved and these hands of fate will pay your dues. This “Freedom of Speech,” your hide and sneaky games will not cure my crew. Now and then just think of me and I will think of you! Cheers all warriors when every shot counts so our love still lives. A moment of silence… and oh blessed be the ones whom have died. To be continued the generations lost have now been renounced okay! Our chariot awaits and endless future and endless future. To the “King of Hearts,” an endless future is where it all starts.