Her grave held the ingredients for both Love and foul play. The earth had made her restless, she’d evaporated, and the smell alerted, the Police attended, the body was put on ice.
Missing people fill files, their whereabouts prioritised by age, sex, debts. She had no neat fit? Paisley pattern designer bag still crossing her left shoulder, it told them; 29, Female, Two Credit Cards.
A graceful lift from compacted mud onto a blue tarpaulin rest, then, a wig fell from her head, and there, on her crown, a tattoo in beautifully executed lower case German Fractur, a name, ‘Horatio’.
Sources couldn’t deliver a Caucasian, a Black, a Brown, a Yellow ‘Horatio’, but under the microscope, her Paisley gift held sticky qualities.
“Here Horatio! Here Boy!”
Horatio the rescue, he’d found a stranger’s love, but at his core, his past, beaten into him, and he was adept at burying bones.
* (This first appeared on adhocfiction.com – Oct 2015)