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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a short piece about a great writer and great man, and a friend, who was murdered for his words.

Submitted: May 20, 2017

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Submitted: May 20, 2017





A writer’s body lies on the concrete with twelve bullets wounds.

Getting shot didn’t hurt as much as he imagined. It was all over in the first tenth of a second when a silver Kalashniknov cap pierced his lung.

Blat. No air.

His first thought was: Shit.

His second thought was: What if I had written children’s stories instead of writing about drug cartels?

His third thought was: The face of his nineteen year old son when he came to his fiftieth birthday and gave him a rocking chair and said, “Hey Dad, this is for you to sit on and read your books with a glass of whisky you old cabron.”

Then he stopped thinking.

I don’t know want happened to his spirit. If he floated up and looked down on the murder scene; on his own corpse, his chest slumped over his arms and his ass in the air; the forensic guys laying a blue sheet over him; the state homicide police putting yellow plastic triangles marking the bullet caps: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve; the crime photographers who he had worked with and drunk with arriving and taking the photos, doing the job which they really didn’t want to do on that day; his compadre and partner at the newspaper he founded staring wide eyed, empty like a volcano, seeing that all they had worked on for fourteen years had led to this day.

I don’t know if his spirit saw that.

Or if a part of him floated up to heaven.

But I do know one place where his spirit is now. In his words. He said to die was to stop writing. And he kept writing until his last. Using his own bullets, the letters of the alphabet, to conjure images of beautiful girls who became the haunted girlfriends of narcos and skinny teenagers who felt they were realizing themselves by taking selfies holding goats horns and journalists like himself taking anti depressants to stop their hands trembling as they wrote about these villains and the money they move and the politicians they work with. 

He kept writing and writing, even after everybody said it was dangerous, and even after they threatened him, because writing made him feel good, and it took away the hurt. And because he felt words mattered.

When they killed him, they showed him right. They murdered him because of his words. But they only made those words bigger than ever.

All I can do now is offer these few of my own words in his honor. It took me to six days to find some, and it wasn’t till then that that my body gave me some tears to ease the hurt, and I weep as I write this.

© Copyright 2019 john cricket. All rights reserved.

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