Ice water in her veins…

3 12 2010

Last night while watching a rerun of Seinfeld I have seen close to 100 times, I was overcome with a strong urge to channel my creative energy into something more constructive than my bustling Sims 3 neighborhood of Pleasantview.  First step was to Google some good writing prompts.  I found to be pretty helpful despite its ironically unimaginative domain name.  After some browsing I stumbled upon this gem; “free write with the cliche ice water in her veins.”  Lacking job prospects, a steady income, and come Decemeber 18th, a home, the direction of my free write took a pretty negative turn.  C’est la vie.


Jane skipped down the path parallel to the river bed.  The hair cascading down the girls back was as dark as coal yet as lustrous as silk.  Your finger tips longed for the satiny touch but feared the repercussions of such a breech in her personal space.  Long, black lashes revealed eyes emulating a deep hue of jade only replicated in those of feline lineage.  Her throat produced a laughter full of infectious joy but also saturated with malevolence. You gravitated towards Jane although a gut-wrenching intuitiveness warned you not to.

She stopped abruptly.  Expressionless, Jane gazed at the wounded dove laying in the gravel.   The bird cocked it’s head in her direction, eying the girls every move.  With a struggle the dove pathetically attempted to create as much space between itself and Jane’s outstretched hand as possible with an impaired wing.  She empathized with the lone, wounded dove but felt no remorse for her actions.  Ice water surged in her veins as she grasped the birds neck with her thumb and index finger.  In an instant the dove was dead and Jane’s lips curled into ever the slightest of smiles.

No one ever noticed the drawings.  Jane was encouraged for her creativity no matter how disturbing each sketch ended up at the conclusion of every art period.  And the teachers loved Jane.  Her cheerful, polite facade was everything a low paid, under appreciated public school teacher could ask for.  She was a break from the insufferable monotony of misbehavior and disrespect analogous with the teaching profession.

But when the police discovered the illustrations, hidden under a loose floor board in the house on Spaulding Road, next to a sigh Kirk Douglas game ball from the 1988 World Series, a set of rusted keys, and an unopened Cracker Jack prize, that Jane disappeared.  The drawings were bound together with a patch of leather and twine, encased in a layer of dust.  Detective Smith carefully pulled at either end of the string revealing images inconceivably conjured from the subconscious of a nine year old child.  It was 2026, Jane wasn’t even alive on that day in September but somehow each picture meticulously represented another aspect of the event.  Federal Law banned mention of the day and resulted in a collective discontinuation of 9/11 remembrance, erasing it from national consciousness.  For twenty years life carried on as if the conflict never existed.

How could a little girl have the ability to accurately depict such a monumental stain in the history of American national security?  Jane knew something.  If only they could find her.




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