Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Dark Blue Oldsmobile

For today's post we offer a quick ditty from Carrier Pigeon issue no. 6 contributor Mike Posillico, with illustrations by Kevin Speidell. If Olympic-level beach volleyball puts you in a gruesome mood then consider this your catharsis, although I suggest using re-runs of the U.S. women's gymnastics team events to test whether your heart is really made of stone. Those are good girls.

Dark Blue Oldsmobile, by Mike Posillico

He sat in the four-door sedan waiting patiently. He'd been there all night long. A thin layer of frost spider-webbed over the dash top and crawled past the gauges. He could see his breath, but it didn't matter. He couldn't risk being heard; the engine would need to stay quiet. He gazed out the window at the small house, his eyes motionless and bloodshot.

© Kevin Speidell 2012
The single-story home across the way was pitch dark, save for the apricot glow emanating from a bedroom window. A female silhouette could be seen walking back and forth. She was getting dressed. She'd soon be coming out, and when she did he'd be ready. 

The pistol was heavy in his gloved hand, but it felt good to hold it. The bore was wide enough for a human finger.

"I'm gonna knock this bitch's head right off her shoulders," he said aloud to no one. "Surprise, baby," he whispered, as he tapped the rod against the window of the car. "Surprise, surprise . . ."

The bedroom light went out.

He checked the chamber of the gun one last time, quietly opened the driver's side door, and crept toward the stoop.

A lone feminine voice could be heard from inside the house, drawing closer and closer to the front door. She was singing a song that was strangely familiar, but he couldn't place it. He slowly lifted the mail slot and peered through the narrow opening into the inner dark.

He heard her mellifluous voice clearly now.

She paused mid-lyric.

"You're making me late for work, baby. It's time for us to go." He let go of the mail slot and readied himself.

© Kevin Speidell 2012
Steadily, he leveled the gun toward the spot he anticipated she would be. He heard the locks on the door release, one by one, until it finally swung open. The woman stepped out and was instantly startled by the sight of him. She jumped back with a hand on her chest, laughing at first.

The initial shot passed through the back of her palm and into her heart. She immediately fell to her back, gasping for breath.

The second took off the bottom half of her jaw, spinning her head to the side.

The third entered through her temple and was the last thing she ever heard.

The morning paper, still wet with dew, was the last thing she ever saw.

Before you could count to three, it was over.

© Kevin Speidell 2012
He tucked the weapon into his belt and stepped over the body. As he passed the door jamb he knelt down to pick up the infant who lay crying at his feet: the only witness to the slaughter. He looked into her face and gently dabbed the crimson spatter from her cheeks. Her wails continued to ring out, piercing the otherwise tranquil dawn.

The dark blue Oldsmobile turned over on the first try. The powerful engine drowned out the sobbing child. As if in no rush at all, he blew hot air into his hands, took one last look at the house where he had spent his youth, and drove off into the early morning sun.