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Fox C. Crowe
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January 2005
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Fox C. Crowe [userpic]
Betty est un Fantôme.

We wake up in St. Louis, Missouri; there's a dark, lonesome bridge that's littered with needles.

The air is more brisk than death; my eyes unhinge, and there's a sharp point a few lifetime's away from my pupil. I wipe the crust away, and she's not there. We are not beneath the bridge, together. I cannot bear the lonesome feeling; to be away without my circus girl.

I pry myself from the cold, stone earth -- and then I stumble a few feet -- and, suddenly:


I'm nearly crushed by a sleek, black, gas-guzzling phantom. The bridge arches high and mighty over some polluted two-lane highway. This is only another black story, to be filed away; there is nothing new about it. We're permeated by the same rush of deceit and hopelessness, and we will not tell a soul.

This is only another black story. And she is not here.

I whisper, 'Where are you?'

There is no answer, and I do a sleepwalk dance through the bridge, shielding my eyes from the sun with my fingers.


I inch closer, through the cold, gray bridge. Sun floods my senses and I cannot think or feel. Where is she?

'Betty. Where are you?'

Then there is a flurry of ash descendng from above, gracefully dancing to the paved floor. My words echo and reverberate off of hard, honest stone into my soul:

"Betty! I love you!"