Thomas Aidan Hiscock – Mussel Cove, Falmouth, Maine – 2025
***
Miss Blue… She’s beautiful – wrapped in joy and red sex.
Arms dangle by her sides, face turned toward the light, drinking the afternoon…
Denim skies, melting sun…
Trees scrape the blue, limbs cracking in the dry air.
Daylight splinters off the ice —
Rainbow spray, peppermint clouds…
***
Estranged from Casco Bay, January grips the cove – slow water, stilled to a polished silver.
(Pale desolation and a taste of what could have been.)
Miss Blue stands away from shore, etched in opal trim.
Crows gossip in the trees, plotting death from their conifer thrones…
(Carrion whispers, black malaise…)
Snow falls from the branches, tickling her nose…
She laughs, swept away by memories – sugar-sweet.
Miss Blue smiles – it’s a perfect day, bright and cold.
She’s beautiful, kind…
Pink nose, cream skin, blushing lips; fierce bluebird eyes and a round, sloping chest –
Full of certitude and grace.
God-fearing, she loves children – her own second-grade class above the rest.
Always the rebel, Miss Blue had promised to take the kids outside.
She settled on ice skating — a rare treat in bleak winter.
“Gather ‘round!” She calls.
“Come, children.”
Acadia, Andrew, Calvin, Claire, Eric, Gale, Jackman, Lilly, Milo, Nellie, Ruby, Sasha.
An entourage of seven-year-olds, faces flush with cold and curious hope –
Slipping around, skates foreign on their feet; chattering, babbling – immersed in small politics of their own…
Miss Blue had come early with the school’s janitor, Silas, to clear a section of the cove and make it suitable for the kids.
Together they’d driven over and cleared the ice, wrestling with the white, fluffy snow…
Silas was a quiet man, but always seemed happy to help Miss Blue and the kids.
The pair shoveled in silence, pushing snow from side to side until a naked oval glistened, shiny and pale – perfect for skating.
Silas didn’t say much, only that he’d drive over to the school, pick the kids up on the bus, and swing back to the cove…
“Makes my head spin, all this there and back again.” He grumbled.
Miss Blue laughed, face red with effort – sweat perfuming the air.
“What’s so funny?” Sneered Silas.
“Nothing, I…”
He turned away, stomping toward the shore.
She frowned…
What the hell was that about?
***
The children huddle together – tiny sheep – so much wool between them; noble armor of sweaters, coats, hats, and scarves…
There’s no strategy… Goldfish eyes, ogling Miss Blue – veneration that only children can know…
(Her stern maternalism, all they need…)
She’s their shepherd…
… Pray there’s no wolf.
***
Every child carries a lunchbox and a thermos of hot chocolate – still warm from the school kitchens.
They slurp their drinks as Miss Blue fastens ice skates and mittens – chocolate foam beading down their chins.
“Come on, everyone!”
Miss Blue glides across the ice; her class watches from the sidelines, shaking with glee.
She skims the surface, flecks of steel and chipped ice…
Delicate, tracing shadows – children stunned by her cursive grace.
“Your turn, kids!” She beams.
Everyone skitters and slips; the sea ice is rough, pockmarked – practically moguls at their size.
Miss Blue brought milk crates for the children, so they slid and pushed and sat on them like small kings and queens.
They laugh, chasing one another… stumbling; the girls singing, holding hands… the boys raising hell –
Snowballs fly through the air, smacking unwary heads;
Miss Blue scolds the boys, who chirp and whoop, dashing away.
Nellie plays by herself, making snow angels off to the side.
“Nellie, sweetie, don’t you want to skate?” Croons Miss Blue.
“I don’t know how.” She puffs, catching snowflakes on her tongue.
“Well, would you like to learn?” Probes Miss Blue.
“No… Not really.”
She flops back, wagging her arms against the snow.
Miss Blue sighs, leaving her be… She seemed happy, after all.
Ruby and Gale skate hand-in-hand, tracing figure eights – waltzing over the ice.
Miss Blue grabs quiet Eric, teaching him to use a crate, guiding him from behind…
He loves his newfound freedom, hooting as the wind licks his face.
Miss Blue catches her breath, pausing to enjoy a sip of hot chocolate.
Memories, soft and sweet, gush over her tongue; emotional palette, rich with the taste of family –
The taste of joy.
***
Silas –
He never left…
Sits on the bus, brooding… rotten with hate…
He smashes a fist against the wheel.
CAN’T HELP IT
Desire – yanks ‘em like a dog on a chain.
He steps out of the bus, grabs something from storage, and walks to the bridge.
Deep breath.
FUCK
He could smell Miss Blue’s lingering sweat… aroma and obsession.
He’s a storm, a wreck — trembling against the shore.
How he craved her…
He would drink her sight and breathe her scent.
He could taste her on his forked tongue…
… Her blonde hair, a beacon – shining for the wrong man…
THE WHORE FROM SCHOOL
That’s all she is…
(That’s all she’ll ever be…)
Silas had patience – until he didn’t…
Until he didn’t, and the rage and the need consumed him, and he couldn’t hold back the pressure and that pounding in his —
GODDAMN FUCKING HEAD
Salt the wound… Animal lust.
SHE’S MINE
He walks to the edge of the bridge –
Ominous. Cruel. Eyes burning.
He wrings his hands in anticipation, fingers twisted into a knot.
She thought life was sweet and safe…
“Mishhh Blueee.” He mewls and smacks his lips.
STUPID FUCKING BITCH
Silas rubs his crotch — stiff, gnarled fingers knead the denim, probing for an erection.
There’s nobody around…
He clutches an old steel anchor, taken from the belly of the bus — small but heavy, dragging an umbilical chain…
Silas stands on the bridge – high above the winding creek that feeds the cove.
A dark wind blows, yawning; obelisk pines creek and groan.
Silas shudders…
Hidden from view, the trees cover his sin – shading his violence, his hate… his lechery.
But his avarice burned… Burned like fire in the vulture night; burned through flesh and blood and love…
(Crooked wings, bent for death and decay…)
FUCK THAT BLUE BELLY BITCH
Miss Blue and her brats huddle below – skating, hollering; air thick with gaiety and laughter.
They stood quite a ways out, but if he could swing that anchor…
From this height, it would crush the ice…
Maybe he’d kill a kid…
Maybe he’d kill her?
But no doubt the ice would break… and that water was deep…
Sucking cold… abyssal draw… Blue rapture.
Son of a bitch, he’d leave ‘em to freeze.
***
“Watch out!”
Acadia and Calvin skate toward Miss Blue, swift with glee.
They collapse into a bundle of snowy hair and hugs.
Miss Blue untangles herself and enjoys another sip of hot chocolate, savoring the warmth.
What a perfect day.
And soon, Silas would be back to bring them home.
***
Silas couldn’t wait – he wanted pain…
… Wanted to see her squirm — see her spine arch; hear it splinter and crack… hear her beg for death.
He wanted her dead.
Pretty and perfect –
SHE’D BE PRETTY FUCKING DEAD
All this static in his head – glitching, tilting frames; distortion and sepia rage.
Emotional buckshot…
He’d play the dummy, the leper; the custodian…
But by God, he’d have her…
He’d suck out her eyes and peel apart her pretty fucking face.
Christ, he’d see her bleed…
So he throws the anchor, heaving it over the edge;
It sails through the air, tossed to fate —
Shooting star, arc of death; whistling steel – shrieking as it drops from the bridge…
… Sinks like a stone…
And smashes through the ice…
***
A rifle crack splits the cove, followed by the gulp of rushing water.
Miss Blue turns, hackles raised…
“What the fuck?! What the fu… What happened!? What was that!?”
She turns to see a hole punched through the ice, and no trace [of the culprit] – save a coy, serpent chain that slips beneath the froth.
Salt water seeps from the ice, cold and clear…
(Like blood from a wound.)
She swallows barbed-wire panic, and peers into the swirling green – it was too deep to see the bottom.
“Miss Blue?!! Miss Blue?!!”
Startled by the noise, her class breaks into nervous chatter – alarm bells ringing…
Now the children crowd around her – curious shadows who felt the ice rumble and break.
Miss Blue looks around, pleading for an answer… for a culprit, for God’s sake…
There!
High on the bridge, lit by overhead sun, a figure wallows in the trees…
A shadow – chewing up their light… An eclipse – clouding their bright sky…
She squints, eyes burning – staring into the sun.
Her heart dropped and a terrible feeling came over her;
The wind shifted and the sky turned gray.
Sunlight leeches from the clouds, retreating…
The sea ice begins to break, splintering as the wound spreads – straight toward Miss Blue and the children – drawn to their presence…
The frozen crust beneath their feet is punctured; pieces of ice fracture, splitting apart – faster than she’d realized…
Now she’s worried…
“Miss Blue… ???” Whines Nellie, tugging at her sleeve.
She raises a finger to her lips, eyes wide with worry.
Cracks spread in every direction; spiderwebs – a mandala of turmoil and fear…
The ice pitches and rolls…
OH MY GOD
“Run! Get to shore! RUN!! Now! Fuck, get to sho – ”
***
“AHHHH”
The ice collapses, plunging into black water and chaos.
Miss Blue screams – consumed by the dark, suffocating locker.
BURNING COLD, NUMB
She breaks the surface, gasping for air.
Children tumble into the frigid ocean… shrieking as the blue vault swallows them whole.
Miss Blue coughs, spitting saltwater…
Her warm, winter clothes are a prison – waterlogged shackles; her skates, sharp futility and deadweight.
She sobs, scrabbling for purchase – for any solid hold on the sea ice… there’s nothing but shrapnel and sinking fear.
She treads water, strength failing – head wrenched beneath the angry foam.
They would freeze to death – hypothermia was real, no need to imagine; the cold pressed close, a lover’s embrace…
Miss Blue forces her eyes open, pain carved into every inch of her body –
It was dull, it was sharp – stole the breath from her lungs.
She was going to die…
(They were all going to die…)
Black spots dance in front of her eyes, and the children seem so far away…
(Even their blistering fear.)
Miss Blue coughs, sea spray flooding her nose and mouth; she chokes and sputters –
Salt-white streaks burn her throat… Blood roars in her ears, heart marching…
WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?
Grabbing air, she yelps and flaps her arms, trying to stay afloat…
Sheets of ice disappear, melting into white myth…
She needs to focus and think of the kids and not die of shock and…
THE CHILDREN!!!
Acadia, Andrew, Calvin, Claire, Eric, Gale, Jackman, Lilly, Milo, Nellie, Ruby, Sasha –
A mantra… a pulse … a lifeline…
Clockwork — precious seconds slipping away…
Seconds counted in stopped hearts and dead children… shivering seconds –
Their window of time, freezing shut…
“Acadia, Andrew, Calvin, Claire, Eric, Gale, Jackman, Lilly, Milo, Nellie, Ruby, Sasha!”
Miss Blue screams these names over and over…
And many voices call back – voices bleached with salt and terror…
She can’t tell who responds…
She couldn’t leave them to die alone and…
Her teeth chatter, hopping in her mouth; their names, stuck like food between her gums…
(If I die with their names on my breath… slit my throat, and let them spill out…) She thinks…
Thrashing, splashes everywhere, wet cacophony…
“We’re d-d-d-drowning!” Screams Nellie.
“T-t-try to swim! Swim, honey – m-m-move your arms and p-p-pump your legs.”
Miss Blue coaxes, trying to stay calm…
(Can you even swim?) She mourns…
Panic…
“Miss-s-s-s Bl-u-u-u-u-e!” They stammer…
Nobody can swim, weighed down by winter clothes and skates and fear – so sour you could taste it…
They reek of death; her nostrils burn, clogged with the stench of plague, despair…
“F-f-f-find me-e-e-e, child-dren…” She gasps –
Hands rush to grab her – reverential – tugging at her clothes and icicle hair.
“Wait, don’t g-g-g-grab me, f-f-fuck! Don’t grab me!” She screams – their desperation weighs her down…
She peels their small, frozen hands off, ripping children from her breast against every instinct…
“D-d-don’t t-t-touch me… I’M SINKING!” She screams.
FUCK
She hadn’t thought of that…
“I c-c-c-c-can’t h-h-hold all of you, Christ! We’ll d-d-drown…”
Arms flail around her, children lost in the spray – startled by her violence.
She sobs…
“F-f-f-find solid ice, g-grab a m-m-m-milk cr-cra-crate…” She shivers, biting her tongue in that morse-code clip.
“SOMETH-TH-TH-ING! ANY-Y-TH-THING…
“P-p-please, d-d-d-don’t die…” She begs, entreating the coffin sky.
Cold chews through their soft young flesh, sucking the warmth from their eyes – kissed by the wet mouth of the sea…
(Charybdis…)
Children are sinking – she struggles to see who remains above water, trying to count heads and coats and ignore the stabbing cold between her eyes…
A terrible scream cuts above the fray –
“What h-h-happened?! Who’s hurt?!” Gargles Miss Blue…
She tastes blood in the water, that sweet iron tang.
“OW, it cut me!” Wails Acadia; strident cry of a child, jagged with pain.
“Miss B-B-Blue… M-m-my arm…”
Miss Blue turns to see Acadia sobbing, color drained from her small moon face;
A huge gash cuts through wool and flesh, blood weeping from the wound.
Flailing, so many legs in one place, they’re trapped inside a ball of knives and crossing blades…
Someone’s skate had cleaved her arm, parting flesh from bone…
Miss Blue feels her stomach roll with nausea… She vomits – citrus bile stains the churning sea…
“FUCK!!” She bleats.
“Miss B-B-Blue… It h-hurts.” Acadia whispers, doe eyes ripe with pain –
(Verdict of crystal tears…)
Waves caress her neck; she can’t hold on… Eyes roll back as blood loss takes her – frost woven on her brow; lips tremble and quail…
She’ll never smile again.
Miss Blue tastes copper, bright and bitter on her tongue; fragrant terror.
(Sick in her heart, sick to her stomach…)
Nausea rolls, throwing another fit –
Vomit crawls up her throat and out her mouth, dousing the murky sea.
“ACADIA!? ACADIA!?” The name dissolves into a mist of woe and waning hope.
OH MY GOD
Miss Blue treads water, lunging at fractured ice, searching for solid ground…
Andrew and Sasha squeal in fear, yielding to the granite blue…
The waves are ravenous – gnashing teeth, savoring the taste of spoiled youth…
“Nooo! BOYS! Andrew… S-S-S-Sasha…”
There’s no response… just indigo silence.
“FUCK! G-G-GOD FUCKING DAMN IT! FUUUCK!”
Teeth clenched, Miss Blue screams in frustration – scraping, feline wail…
“Keep swimming!” She commands, desperate to rally her troops.
“Tread w-w-w-w-water! Grab some ice! Please d-d-d-don’t die… Please don’t fucking die!”
She couldn’t handle the pain, the torment…
Guilt balloons in her chest.
She can’t think straight –
Acadia… Andrew… Sasha…
Dead. Gone. Lost to the abyss.
Would the rest hang on? Would she?
Ruby’s blond hair is stiff, plated with frost; Calvin’s curls sag, eaten by icicles fangs…
Miss Blue looks around, scanning for signs of life…
She turns back – Calvin is gone – bubbles swirl through his dead fingers; pale worms, writhing, reaching…
She cries out, but it’s too late.
Her class is dying –
Eric sinks… Then Lilly…
One after another – chained to the bottom of the ocean…
A loop of death…
(Dark ostinato…)
Her grief is a waterfall – a cascade of tears and snot and defeat…
She can’t breathe, choking on crimson slush.
She screams, beating the water into submission; mortar fists rain down, pummeling the sea.
“OW! Mother FUCKER!”
Her wrath slams against a sheet of ice – to her surprise, it doesn’t break…
She freezes – terrified this fragile hope will crumble…
At last – solid ground. She’d reached the ice shelf…
She’s too tired to hold on… But she doesn’t have to – her mittens stick to the ice, glued in place.
Her body is cold; her blood, frozen – leaking through serpent veins.
Every breath is a knife; ripping, tearing… Chewing glass…
(Crown of thorns…)
She lays down her head, cheeks ablaze with cold relief; a migraine thunders behind her eyes, but the moment is bliss…
Safety…
The children!?
“H-H-Hey! HEY?!” She rasps, lifting her head from the ice.
She turns.
“HEY!?”
A few bodies still struggle in the water, but she can’t tell who…
How the fuck are they still alive?
Between the cold, the shock, and their concrete clothes –
Only the flame of evolution and human vigor keeps them moving…
They’re so young… So scared…
Maybe they didn’t want to survive, but by God, they kept fighting – spitting in the face of death:
Snatching at ice, hugging milk crates – lifelines in this morbid jungle… Lights in the dark…
The water runs cold in their veins…
(Bound to the blue Atlantic…)
“Ch-ch-children!!! Qu-qu-qu-quickly, quickly n-n-n-now!”
“Swim to m-m-me!” She cries. “T-t-try to swim, pl-please!”
The survivors fight toward her, reaching for security…
Miss Blue extends a hand, beckoning, urging – hugging the sheet of ice with the other.
Claire, Gale, Jackman, Milo, Nellie, and Ruby –
“Come here, c-c-come h-h-h-here… Quickly, now! H-H-Hold on, gr-gra-gab the ice!”
She pulls them close, their strength all but spent…
They crowd around, holding tight –
Clinging to one another, clinging to the ice – to these shards of glass hope…
The ice is strong… It’ll hold – but safety is fleeting…
(These wings are wax…)
Miss Blue could finally see the children, and what she saw was terrible…
Pale, wrinkled faces, stripped of color – moulded over with resignation and green defeat.
Every expression, a death note – decay written in their eyes…
They swarm Miss Blue, begging for guidance, for strength – for their teacher…
Not this shivering, limp rag of a woman… A marionette – dancing on the strings of fate…
Her lips tilt into something that resembles a smile… A relic – the ghost of a beautiful day.
She surveys the children – shivering, weak… They’re exhausted…
Death calls, and he’s tired of waiting… Time’s up – they can linger no more.
(A chilling ultimatum…)
“Claire, y-y-you f-f-first” Miss Blue orders, reaching for a small girl with soapstone hair
“AHHH FUCK! FUUUCK!”
Fireworks explode in her head – sharp, searing torment…
Someone’s ice skate tears through leather and fur and wool – breaching skin, carving her ribs.
The pain is swift, sudden…
But the blade feels eternal; a lifetime of cold steel, hacking through nerves and fat…
She tastes metal in her mouth –
“Who FUCKING cut me?!” She roars, lashing out in pain.
“I’m s-s-sorry, I’m sorry, M-M-Miss Blue… I didn’t mean… I d-d-didn’t … I didn’t…”
A timid confession rings out, trailing off into nervous silence…
She has no idea who… She doesn’t fucking care.
The wound burns – burns with cold, with pain; smoldering with the last embers of hope…
Tears spill from her eyes, clouding her vision…
A drama of red and white unfolds across her chest.
“Miss Blue… it h-h-hurts… I’m so… S-s-so… I’m s-s-so c-c-cold…
“I want to go home…”
Jackman clutches the ice with his little paws, lips sealed with the promise of death…
“Hang on, honey, d-d-don’t go! I’m r-r-right here with you…”
DON’T LEAVE ME
His eyes grow dim, breathing slows – the light snuffed from his small corner of the sky, never to shine again; like stars muted by the encroaching dawn… Pupils wither, beetle black…
His grip weakens, losing purchase, and he’s dragged out of sight, out of sound… to a tomb of salt and mud…
(Home at last…)
“NO! NO! Jackman…”
Candlewax blood hardens against her clothes, sticky and hot…
Her vision flickers – Miss Blue is failing – the wound in her side, a seam of blood and bone…
Locking cold and agony, every breath a prison… a punishment…
She’s spent, slipping between watery consciousness.
(Suffer and become…)
The sinister cold takes its toll –
No bravery can withstand the vice-grip numb… It’s a battle of attrition, and she’s losing the war.
Miss Blue grabs Claire by the collar and tries to haul her onto the ice; but the water is greedy, sucking her back – loath to relinquish its prey.
“Get up, Claire! C-c-come on! U-u-u-use your arms – crawl, that’s it.. That’s it! C-c-come on, sweetie!”
She lifts her up, pushing against the girl’s slight, avian build –
Claire claws and kicks, scraping her stomach against the edge – trying to make it over the hump…
There’s nothing to grab, but she’s light enough to scurry up and out, digging her elbows into the white plain beneath her.
Miss Blue pushes her legs from behind, careful to avoid the skates flailing in her face…
With Claire safely out of the water and resting on the ice, she turns her attention to the remaining children:
“Gale, y-y-your turn… T-t-time to go, child; l-l-let’s g-g-g-get you out of here…”
Gale looks horrified, resigned; her owl eyes wide with fear… black hair, a thicket of frost.
She struggles against the ice, trying to pull herself from the molasses water…
Miss Blue catches fire, adrenaline surging through her veins… like a phoenix, rising from the ashes…
She’ll save these kids, by God.
They’re broken, exhausted… But she would see them through until the end….
The finality grips Miss Blue – spurring her on…
She shoves a hand under Gale’s stomach, heaving her up onto the ice…
That’s two children out of the water…
Miss Blue grabs Milo, pushing up – grinding him against the sawtooth edge…
“Ow! That h-h-hurts, Miss Blue! OW… St-st-stop! Stop it, pl-pl-please!”
Winter teeth gnaw his skin…
“Come on, Milo – get up there!!”
Any remnants of hope and compassion are gone – snuffed by the foul breath of dread –
“Crawl, Milo – c-c-come on, g-g-g-get the F-F-FUCK up there!” She snarls.
“S-s-s-stop it, Miss Blue, you’re h-h-h-hurting me!”
“I d-d-d-don’t care, Milo! You’re n-n-n-not gonna’ die…
GET THE FUCK UP THERE, YOU BRAT!”
He’s stuck – belly pressed against the edge, like a balloon about to pop.
Milo loses his traction, sliding backwards in the murk – chained to the starving sea…
Cold water douses Miss Blue;
She loses her grip, arms thrown up in surrender and surprise…
And just like that, she’s back to square one – treading water, sifting through wreckage and pain…
“Fuck you!” She hollers, spitting jaundice rage… “FUCK YOU!”
Burning arms and windmill legs – desperate to stay afloat…
“Help! Help us! Please…”
(Petitioning the empty sky…)
Milo plants his hands firmly on the ice, elbows bent in anticipation, ready to spring…
He slithers against the ice, contorting his thin frame – face tight with exertion.
But he did it. He’s free…
Miss Blue struggles back to the shelf, glancing around…
FUCK
Ruby and Nellie stand in dire straits –
Nellie clings to the ice, barely breathing… hazel eyes flutter and twitch…
If she wasn’t dying, she could have been sleeping…
Tears spill down her chalk-white skin… Her charcoal beanie, frozen stiff; a helmet, unequipped for the battle at hand…
Poor Ruby had been flung back, forced from the oasis by Miss Blue’s violent tantrum…
She paddles forward, navigating through the slush, fighting to reach her teacher… and security.
A wooden milk crate drifts by –
Miracle? Or the temptation of a fickle god, whose humor stains the earth around them?
“Grab it, Ruby!”
Ruby – little hands and blonde hair – reaching, yearning… She grabs the crate, clinging to life…
“G-g-good! Kick y-y-y-your f-f-feet… Now, fl-fl-float over t-t-t-to me… That’s it…”
Ruby tries to hold on, but she keels over, compromised by cold and lead defeat…
Her skeleton fingers slip, and the crate spins… one final trick before she disappears.
She floats face-down – her sunflower hair, a halo… blossom gold…
“Ruby!? … Ruby!?”
Miss Blue shuts her eyes in disgust…
(Heavy hands, hollow heart…)
Motif of death… Morbid crescendo…
Nellie sticks to the ice; misting breath the only proof she’s still alive… But only just…
FUCK
Miss Blue cups her hips, lifting her torso from the shackle sea, sliding her gently onto the ice…
She pushes down, thrusting her legs, heaving Nellie’s body – caught in cruel polarity; the poor girl’s life could mean her death…
Her leg spasms – razor foot butchering Miss Blue’s exposed cheek…
The woman shrieks – a banshee wail that pierces the cove…
Her face begins to swell, vision blurs…
Fireflies dance behind her eyes… and she faints, smacking her head on the granite ice…
***
“Miss Blue? Miss Blue, c-c-can you h-h-hear me? Are y-y-y-you hurt?”
Miss Blue wakes to a shrill, piccolo voice in her ear…
AM I HURT?
AM I FUCKING HURT!?
Claire kneels down, shaking her shoulder…
Her face is pressed against the ice, and pomegranate blood drips into her mouth…
Her legs float in the water, but there’s no more feeling…
She looks back at Claire, squinting through monocle sight… torn with pity and disbelief at the girl’s innocence… Or her goddamn ignorance…
“YES I’M FUCKING HURT, CHILD! WHAT DO YOU THINK?!”
“I’LL FUCKING FREEZE TO DEATH IF I DON’T BLEED OUT – DO YOU UNDERSTAND!? DO YOU?!”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry?!” She starts to cry…
Milo bawls softly, curled in the fetal position… Nellie and Gale lay shivering on the ice, silent…
Miss Blue can’t feel her arms or hands or legs – body wrapped in a white cocoon…
She surveys the carnage…
Small woolen hats litter the surface… a roll call for the deceased –
Her entire class sucked beneath the waves… swallowed whole…
The dead are silent, but the wind whispers –
She stares at the slate sky, chiseled with Death’s mocking grin…
There was no help. No savior.
The sky shakes, a field of dark smoke and ash; desolate – unphased by the horror below…
She needs to escape the water or the children would die.
She needs to escape the water or she would die.
Something bumps her leg, and she holds back a scream…
It’s a corpse and she knows it –
She can’t help herself and turns around, stealing a crooked glance…
A small body floats atop the water…
But there’s no face… No name to utter or mourne…
She rips off her mittens;
Miss Blue cries out – waning strength just enough to push her limp, dead-fish hands against the ice…
She can’t feel as her watercolor blood trickles down… This liminal body, far beyond pain…
She’s exhausted, drooling – boots stuck in the turgid water.
HOLY FUCK!
Who threw that piece of metal… What was it? What HAPPENED?
She needed to check on Nellie and Gale…
RUBY WAS DEAD
THE REST WERE FUCKING DEAD
SHE NEEDED TO SAVE MILO AND CLAIRE
GOD ALMIGHTY, SHE NEEDED TO SAVE HERSELF
She looks around – kaleidoscope vision, dizzy – and scans her field of view…
IT MUST HAVE BEEN THE BRIDGE
DID SOMETHING FALL… DROPPED FROM A PASSING TRUCK?
CONSTRUCTION?
A ROCK, SPIT OFF THE ROAD?
She tries to recreate what had happened in her mind… A sequence… The order of operations:
HOT CHOCOLATE. LAUGHING CHILDREN. THE STRIDENT RASP OF STEEL AND SNEAKING METAL. GREEN, RUSHING WATER. BREAKING ICE… AND A SHADOW… A SMUDGE, BLOCKING THE SUN… OPIATE BLACK… THEN NOTHING…
It didn’t make sense…
HOW COULD THIS BE? WHAT THE FUCK?
WHO WAS THE MAN ON THE BRIDGE!?
WHO THE FUCK WAS ON THE BRIDGE!?!
Moaning, sobbing – she squirms until her stomach lies flat against solid ground…
Her face – painted with blood, snot, and drool…
The children, strewn like old toys across the ice…
Milo and Claire appear to be okay – freezing, weak and crying – but maybe they’d live…
“Are you cut, are you bleeding?”
The pair timidly shake their heads – nothing can describe their torment…
“The others?”
There’s no response – Nellie and Gale are fading.
“Look away, children – don’t look at them! Eyes on me…”
But watching her struggle is no better…
Milo and Claire are shell-shocked, mouthing… Staring at the stiff, cardboard bodies of their friends…
The girls are catatonic, frail – petite chests flutter up and down, beating a rhythm of death…
“Silas should be back soon! He’ll come… He’ll… help… He’ll save us…”
Darkness holds her close, and she blacks out once again, slumped against the crawling white…
***
Silas…
He watches from the bridge; watches the children struggle and die, like bugs dropped in a jar of water.
The collapse…
But it was Miss Blue who held his attention…. Her pain, an aphrodisiac…
The stink of her desperation mingled with salt, and the sweet scent of pussy and punishment…
And there she was – caught in his frostbitten web…
He licks his dry lips…
She couldn’t even process what had happened –
That her class lay dead in the water… That the ones on the ice would soon follow…
Sweet tragedy…
STUPID FUCKING CUNT
She’d never get the chance…
He scurries down the embankment, trampling twigs and leaves and snow beneath his heavy boots –
(Landslide of hate…)
***
Miss Blue –
Silence…
Grief murmurs in her ears.
The children see Silas approach, and they muster their energy to flag him down…
“Silas! Help us! Silas!”
SILAS…
That name rings a bell…
Had he returned from school?
She felt relieved…
Good… He’ll save us…
Miss Blue opens her eyes – Silas towers above her, wrapped in long shadow…
She gasps… “Silas!”
“Please, help us… help me…”
They lock eyes… He elbows her in the fucking face, smashing her nose…
It’s a wanton beating; blood sprays everywhere, misting the ice…
He becomes an artist – Miss Blue, a canvas for his vicious muse…
Silas hits her – Again… and again… and again…
A gash opens in her forehead – scarlet smirk…
Passion.
He kicks her in the crotch, painting with violet bruises… harsh purple…
Brushstrokes of black and blue… Muse and masterpiece, all in one…
He rouses a chorus of screams, joined by Milo and Claire…
Blood pours down her throat; she chokes, crying – eyes shimmer with bright-white pain…
The children sob uncontrollably, confused – unsure why the man who helped them would hurt their teacher…
He grabs her hair, whipping her across the ice…
“SILAB!?” She begs… nails raking the cold, desperate for purchase…
“SILAB! Hehb us! STAHB! Bon’t hurt meh!”
She tries to quell his fury – his flames…
Milo and Claire yell in confusion, pleading a case they don’t understand…
“Silas!? Silas, please… help us! Where are you going?”
“SILAB! SILAB, WHAT THE FUGG?! PLHEASE… STAHB!! STAHB IT!!”
She pleads…
He ignores the children… He ignores her –
Just stares into the wind, plowing ahead, treading a sinister path…
Miss Blue coughs, splutters; she’s hoarse, choking on terror…
She scrapes his knuckles, digging at rawhide skin; warm blood pours down her wrists, but he doesn’t notice…
“KIBS! BIHLO! BHAIRE! GET HELB, BIND SOME –”
Silas turns the corner, dragging Miss Blue around the bend…
Her screams echo across the cove…
Milo and Claire weep on the ice, shattered… forgotten…
Nellie and Gale rattle with death…
The sun was long gone and the oil sky closed in…
Snow begins to fall, wind scraping the open cove…
The breeze hung dead, limp… An infernal place – a desert of white and red…
(Sanctum of pale death…)
Crows gather in the trees…
Verdict passed, they’d claim this grave as their own – witness to Chiron’s solemn ferry…
Stars tremble in the night, and a sickle moon rises high above,
Shining in the dead of winter.
***
Mussel Cove Creations 
Leave a comment