Between stars and children

Fortsquare alley

"you know when i was your age, my mother told me not to run into alleys"

in his hand was clutched a sweltering corpse of a fox, its furred back gave the impression of the apocalypse, fiery and burnt, patches were missing and stood stroking it was the wandering child after an atomic bomb. He seemed immersed in his own forgotten memory, his lost face had become another tree stump to be passed and forgotten, but now with each kill he accumulated another ring to his infant skin. Before the universes creation and before the stars aligned and before the sky hailed down, dropping onto gods canvas, there were star children who would play hopscotch in the palm of god, but one fell. He became lost in the brambles of time and space, not knowing who he was or what he was supposed to do. He tried to find his skin in paint and pencil, hoping to find compensation in existence. His half life however drove him to insanity, he could find neither his home or his mate. He hungered for the gardens of stars once more, he dreamt of his companions compiled of glowing gas, calling out his name, he found them nowhere. Thousands of years had passed and out of kindness god had taken his mind, he relieved him of his suffering, but left him with his mania.

"she told me an alley is the half way path between the present and the afterlife" he dropped the fox to hold by its tail and begun swinging it as he backed the child into a corner "here you'll find all angels and demons live in harmony, in darkness, awaiting their calling"

the young boy was feeble and young for his age, his face was sharply square with a pair of wire rimmed glasses balancing on the edge of his nose, the thick glasses lenses became fogged in the tight enclosure with the fallen Childs fogged breath fanning his face. In his pyjama pocket his sweaty palm hugged a light blue inhaler that he so desperately wanted to puff.

"do you believe that young one?" a grime coated hand reached out to clutch the young face.

unhappy with the boys unresponsive nature, still clutching the young trembling face, he yanked it in a forceful nod

"you do believe in it don't you?" his words were coated in thick saliva that frothed and spat as he spoke creating an unholy sluggish noise in his desperation for affirmation." lucky for you I'm one of the divine ones"

"now what's your name, my hands like to know who they're talking too"

***

"Thomas Yates, seven years old" James heaved the solemn information from his throat, still not quite used to the brutality he now had to face on a regular

Hounds door had been knocked ferociously, disturbing him from the frustrating knot he couldn't undo in his tie. As his fingers worked hurriedly to get dressed an open edition of 'The complete history of ritual religion in Europe' lay open on his dresser. The murder of Margaret Kalder still played on his mind, not the case itself, but the murder. His mind was infested with images of crosses and abused skin, he thought of the dirt and how it moulded so efficiently into a ditch, he thought of the billowy night dress scooping up the night air as it flew past the moon, but more than anything he heard Margaret's painful sobs being echoed by Julia Kalder's as she lay cold and dying. He thought back to when he was a child and his mother would teach him how to sow seeds in spring time, he remembered how she recollected to rice farming when she was a young girl, before she came to England. They would spend hours out under the brisk sun while his father would not be found, he remembered the dew of the grass at dawn, he remembered the way a flower would shake when a bee hovered inside like a child with a bucket on their head and he remembered birds. His mother had been partial to attaching stories so birds feathers; if they were smooth and soft she though they were children's souls, but if they were ragged and dark she associated them with adults.