Sometimes old stories become songs. Sometimes it's the other way 'round. - MM The grass out back needed cut something fierce. Following the heavy afternoon rain, the whole yard shimmered in the early evening sun like diamonds had somehow taken root in the dirt and grass alike. Steam rose from the fields beyond the house. The air smelled of wet earth, fish grease, and mildew. Inside, the baby just would not stop crying. Eddie sat slumped at the kitchen table while Mama had just started frying bluegill in an iron skillet blackened by thirty years of suppers. He looked bad. Worse than he had in a good while. His hair hung damp against his forehead and there were dark half-moons beneath his eyes. His shirt was streaked with mud up to the elbows. He kept rubbing at his temples like he was trying to press the pain out through his skull. “Can Mary fry some fish, Mama?” he muttered weakly. “I’m as hungry as can be.” “I’m already fixin’ it,” Mama answered softly. Eddie lowered his head...
It started when he was 15. Pieces of her to play with...it didn't sound like the worst idea. Probably wasn't his best. His teachers would have told you the same, had anyone bothered to ask. Knives to filet and carve with. Cleavers. Hell, machetes, hatchets, axes, all in the shed and as handy as a sword. His mind was on which pieces and the best possible game. It should have just been a simple play on words, but it turned into a lifelong addiction. Words and ideas came quick then - much quicker than now. His beat, his attack...all slower than before. Even the fire burns more sluggishly now. He'd be the first to tell you - the idea came from movies. Such bad, bad movies. Poorly written, and filmed for budget audiences; the types that frequented the drive-in picture shows on a Tuesday night with a case of Hamm's in the back seat. He noticed the audiences loved every moment, predictable as it was. A group of friends. Some pretty teens. Lack of supervision. Cigarettes, re...