The Scarlet Slicker
Written by Redell

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Loose interpretation of Nathaniel Hawthorne's "The Scarlet Letter" and "Gone For Goode" as well as "Ghost of a Chance" and etc. This may get a bit "complex" and drawn out. Don't ask me why..I put shame to a classic work of literature. Think of it as my little experiment.


Deep in within Baltimore, on this night, on which the air deemed itself to grow coated in a thickening smoke and dampness, before last of the shift could find their bearings and headingout onto vacant beds and stale leftovers, the phone rang. It bleated insufferably through the air.

Goody Detective Howard directed her newest colleague to the desk, in which like a siren song, the phone did call, upon *him*. Lifting the receiver, he spoke in padded answer: "Homicide. Detective Mr. Bayliss."

The call taken down and followed through. Rushing headlong into the sudden drizzle, looking up into jaded clouds, his fate seemed pushed back and pulled out the future. <'Tis better, to be than to be.> This was his chance.

Alone, within the solid confines of a war-beaten cavalier, this lone man shuddered forth, ready to solve and conquer. Pulling his ID, he flashed it unknowingly before the swarmed scene. Pushing through the mob to see what he was sent to. At first, he sees the red. This dislocated, blurrier mass of flesh beneath, as if sleeping. As if dead.

This Unbreathing Wonder consumed his zeal. Stillness-from what he could remember-pulled him into reality. Who was she before this? Who was she, this tiny figure of quiet? Why didst Death reach for her, and not let go?

Standing sullen in the rain, towering like a Oak, to her Sapling, Bayliss feared speaking anymore than he wished. It felt nothing could be said. The water washed away the words. The sky cried for him. For her. For this very first murder case.

For this child, young child, now given unto gentle death, which touches her now-but not what dizzying pain of separation that ripped her from delicate mortality? This Death; This Afterlife? Hath she learn, the ills of eternal silence? Hath she known her silencer? Perhaps a fool will answer and leave a genius a puzzle. Time will tell.

Twisted in rainfall, she lies there having to remain on display for the many present. And the many to come. Watchers who become judgers over seconds of speculation. Blaming whomever, seemed fit to take blame.

Perhaps, it would be he.

As he watched, leading from this innocent's body, were rivulets of scarlet, puddling to this Good Rookie's shoes. was believed to be heard, but not recognized through the present, angry downpour sheeting this darkened, lonely city.

[not me not me not me not me not me wakeup wakeup]

Still keeping focus on the girl-child, The Good Rookie Detective, became lost and drawn back. Everything was coming back. It circled the truth of what he knew before-the world was thoughtless.

"Release her...Release her...Kind sir...Release her..."