Addison Sands

My name is Addison Sands and I am a criminal.

I am not a murderer, rapist, thief, child-molester or spy—you should be aware of this from the outset. No, I am a ranking member of the Achromatic Order of Annubis—a crime that, up until the purge of ’08 didn’t even exist. Shocked? Don’t be. Feel free, however, to have this disk blessed by whatever priest the Department of Religious Affairs has assigned you. I have not enspelled it. That isn’t my style. I have story to tell, not a score to settle—well not yet, and definitely not with you. Please sit back and allow this recording to play.

Now…let us begin:

I first met Jenni Rust on a cold morning back in ’10. She was a hedge-witch, or, rather, would have been if hedges hadn’t been replaced by cracked sidewalks, graffiti and human waste. Still, she was an urban sorceress, a priestess, really, of tepid winters, steel-colored night skies, acid rain, and forests of tumble-down tenement. She was a healer and protector of dirty, vacant-eyed children, of drunks and winos so far gone that animals stood a better chance than they did of becoming employed. She was the guardian angel of broken prostitutes and runaways; she was the prophetess of the weary and hopeless. She was sixteen years old and she, like the rest of us, was a fugitive.

At the time I met her, the Order had a small, underground bistro in a tenement basement on the Westside. The Order, despite its now-fugitive status, had not then, or ever, lacked for money. Thus, the bistro in the tenement basement had been opened as both a meeting place for our kind and as a place to feed the poor and wretched that the purge had poured forth upon the streets. There were, are, many such places, hidden out of the way, providing sustenance to the needy and lines of communication for the Resistance. These places were run by an assortment of organizations, not all of which suffered the pall of criminalcy. No, many private organizations opened shelters and half-way houses, 21st century underground rail-roads, if you will, that sought to get people to safety, to feed them, harbor them. Not that any place was really safe anymore, but one has to have a goal. Still, our organization, decidedly criminal, opened a bistro in that tenement basement on the Westside.

On that cold, distant morning, Jenni Rust walked in from the dark, blustering snarl beyond the service entrance, shook the snow from her shoulders, looked me in the eye and stabbed me, literally, through the heart with a cheap, Pakistani blade.

~ by liberdementia on February 28, 2009.

2 Responses to “Addison Sands”

  1. loved it =)

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