The Medusa Chronicles is a collection of short stories BJ has been working on for a while. She plan’s on posting a few here and on her Substack but hopes to have the book out later this summer….
The Butcher Knife—notes from Alma Rance, 1987
We don’t always get there in time. We can’t save some before the bad things happen. We can’t save the dead.
But we do avenge them.
Cairo, IL 1934
“You know why we keep the knifes for hogs so sharp? That edge… when someone knows what they’re doing with a whetstone. The edge will stay sharp for a lot of slaughters— especially if you have the touch. Being able to slice a hog’s neck and keep it from knowing is otherworldly. Your gram had that touch. So did her mother.”
My mother, Nadine never minced her words.
“Never forget Alma— where you came from and how you were raised. Now quiet— he’s coming, and I don’t have the strength I used too.”
I could hear him stumbling up the stairs— probably been at the bar and was deep in his cups. Not surprising since both his son and wife died a week ago.
What was surprising was the number of people that didn’t realize he had been abusing the boy and his wife found out. She remembered the whispers of her momma and wrote Nadine. If she hadn’t decided to confront him, she and Jamie might still be alive.
No forgiveness here Carl.
Hiding in the shadows he never saw us. Momma cut his throat while whispering his sins and their names in his ears. I held the bucket. We needed it so the concrete we made wouldn’t crack with the frost.
Waste not, want not.
He died whimpering in a dirty hallway. Getting him out wasn’t hard— his hat and coat hide most of the damage. We walked him out like he needed to go to the hospital. Didn’t need too.
Nobody saw a thing.
A long drive to the caverns. Finding Hecate’s Hole in the dark with a flickering lantern was easy for us— hauling him, the blood, and the memories was the hardest. Especially Jamie’s young face in my mind. The supplies we had stashed before driving down. A coat of quicklime, the blood, some special ash, horsehair, sand, and a few other trade secrets he was encased. We slept in the car and in the morning, it was hard enough to drop into the deep water.
Another man for Medusa to keep.
Sometimes I felt guilty, but not after that man. Not after what he did to that little boy and his wife— that killed the empathy I had. To my knowledge, we never killed an innocent man.
Stay tuned for more short stories from BJ! She is planning on a couple of collections being released this year.
JP Brand Books 