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  • Writer's picturen0mad

Meeting Chantelle

It felt clammy.. clammy and moist, rubbery even, in the sticky Louisianna summer heat. She’d been told to stay by the house, play with her brother, but the car, with it’s engine running, up behind the derelict house, two doors down, had been too enticing to leave unexplored. There was a smell of vanilla, juniper, rose petals, a little tired perhaps, but still very much in evidence, clinging to the sticky heavy air like warm toffee. She didn’t know what had drawn her, or why she had to prod and poke when most would have run home to Mumma. Perhaps she was just a curious child, a pioneer. The eyes stared at her unseeing as she caressed the rigid clamminess. Because when the blood stops flowing, it will get hard, second-grade biology had taught her that. It hadn’t been hard when the bullet kissed the woman’s head, the ceiling of the vehicle paid silent testament to that. But now it felt hard, hard and cold. That deep ebony skin, with the tattoo of the rabbit on the arm hanging out of the car door. People often ask what made her choose her particular career and looking back it was probably that hot Louisianna August day, and meeting Chantelle up close and personal...



To write a piece with touch and smell.

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