The Hit Woman's Assassination Handbook by Jane Brooke

Author:Jane Brooke
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Violence, surreal Indian world of lore, guns, knives, axes, pathos, sex, madness, a journey into a young female’s genius mind, a LOVE Story of perhaps fateful and crushing beauty
ISBN: 9781783331536
Publisher: Andrews UK
Published: 2013-08-13T04:00:00+00:00

A Selfish Moon

THE NIGHT swallowed me whole as the selfish moon fell within the margins of the world before I could see it do so...It prevented me one more from remembering, how they connected, love and the moon, life, touch, of a women, as I tried to think of what love was, how it felt, a timeless long ago, yes, for me...I am staring into the golden crystal ball, biding sacred time, delaying living again, for they have told me that patience is essential within matter of love. But, if I have forgotten, it’s face, touch, smell, it’s taste and breath, then might it pass me by so easily as Luna again has fallen behind the stratosphere there, within the future I beg to secure one last glimpse of...I do not know how love feels any longer...I have lost the memory of its look. What a simple smile from a woman can do for my heart, soul and mind, a fire of memory every evening as I rush to the edge of the world trying to see the moon before it vanishes as my life did, within that fire...My horse flail at me in splendor, yelling at me. Go, look, she is there, we will be fine.”...But, if I remember only parts of love, or try to do so, before burning skin scorched the skin from my soul, how shall I ever recognize love face, ever again...Can I ever think any woman will ever think that I am sane again?...And I try, and I cry, and I die and break apart as Sun turns to Moon, and moons eclipse into solar flares, as I think of how fate, as dealt Tarot Cards, as the wind whispers whisper to me, that without love, the forests die, the rivers dry, and air turns to soiled skies, and my

heart, does its best to live, and survive, or perhaps it tries.

SHE GASPS, sits on the edge of the bed, Angel at her feet, tears streaming down her face, his blue bound manuscript now closed, pressing against her breasts.

The love story, images, of tragedy, filled with imagery, color, woven words, the journey decimates her heart as her tears fall down her chin, splashing on the blue paper.

He is her, she is him. They are similar.

Except he is a gifted artist and she is a whore. It is impossible for her to comprehend. It is an experience she has never had before.

Her body trembles, she feels ashamed, her face lifts; reflection in the wall mirror, her face becomes grief stricken, she whispers. “I could never write like this.”

Her hands falls along the floor, her small chin to her collar bones. She begins to sob as Angel, feeling her grief, licks her hand with her loving pink tongue.

She is paralyzed. After time, is there such a thing to her, her face lifts, stares into the mirror again, face reflecting in the mirror.

Reflecting back what?

What she sees is revulsion, a memory, of the seven year old girl, a

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