Death

     The book is old, heavy indented hard cover worn and tattered. The binding voraciously coming undone. More than several pages threatening to fall out like others had already done as they drift to the ground. Ignored by the young feminine hand that flips though them. Pages centuries old. The writing ancient and almost indistinguishable. Penned in a language just as old. Just as ancient. But they do not matter. The pages escaping from the binding hold no meaning anymore. They haven't held a meaning in several millennia. They have been forgotten just like the languages they are written in.  

    The hand ignores them, continuing to flip through the pages. Each turn more recent. As if flipping through a time line labeled with names and locations. A history of sort, but of what unknown. The languages becoming more and more recent. Places that once didn't exist now discovered. But they are ignored. Unseen. Forgotten. Soon to be lost like the other entries. But not all. Not the page bookmarked with an obscure and lonely single cut gold thread. Glinting softly in the glow of the blueish hue surrounding the dark unfathomed space. The hand gently swiping across it. Deeply feeling the texture. The ends frayed after so many years. Yet, somehow, unnaturally, the shine.  Still holding that special glint like the day that the tread was places into the book. At least thats what most would imagine. The memory of it is forgotten. The only good, gentle, even magnanimous thing left is to assume. But then there is that chance that the thread was brighter or even a different color back in the long forgotten days. It isn't possible to know so the thought and imagination of it being ageless is enough.

    The owner of the hand smiles, her unusual  beautiful blue eyes murky and lightless with unseen age. Yet the surrounding skin unblemished, smooth. Unnaturally perfect. No circles under the eyes, no stray red blots of skin yelling in anger for others to notice. No need to hide anything under a thick layer of coverup because there is nothing to hide. Just accentuated by thick black makeup. Smeared after years of staying where it is. Some of it in dripping. Representing past shed tears. But that is all. Except maybe that stray strand of hair that gets moved by unseen wind and requires constant need to be tucked behind her ear. The rest of her hair is long, black, cascading down her back in a dark caliginous waterfall. The darkness of the hair blurring with the young woman's black robes. Her face young. Impossibly so even as her eyes show a great number of years. Their irises showing the only color that isn't pale white of her perfect skin of the darkest black of her hair and clothing. Blue. Impossible. Yet here they are. Piercing, scanning the pages until they land on the latest entry, somehow unable to focus on the others.

    The newest Entry. Written in blood. The writing thin. Ink still holding its bright crimson color. Not yet faded to brown that distinguished dried blood of the other, once new listings. New blood. Fresh blood. Glistening from an unknown light source that surrounds the place. Even still some can argue that it comes from that one lone street lamp on the side of the road. But the glisten of the blood and the question of light do not matter. Only the meaning and the writing that is written in it.  

Allison Sparrow

Nat Turner Park

Newark, NJ 07108

    The young woman let out a sigh, shuts the book with a little more force than necessary and begins to walk. Taking long strides. Skirt rolling with each step, cape flowing beautifully behind her. The thick fabric snapping with each twist and turn until she comes to the place that is written in her book. Unseen by the world. Invisible to anyone or anything that might look her way. Not that they would since there is not one there. At least, no other than the one with the name Allison Sparrow. No one other than who's blood wrote out the place where the woman needed to go.  The woman looks down, the muddy trampled grass unmoved by her feet. The soft rain cascading from the heavens above unable to touch her as it drizzles around her. Her perfect unblemished face expresses a look of sadness, maybe even regret. She hesitantly bends down to look at the young girl lying in the midst of the flooding grass.