This was a downtown section of Carroll City, an east coast metropolis with a population of five hundred thousand. She reflected that what others thought about her didn’t matter now, and she hugged herself. She was a genuine goddess! Too bad she couldn’t yet flaunt that to the world.
She sat on a couch facing the windows and stretched, relaxing in the too-warm room, enjoying her triumph, wriggling her scarlet-tipped toes. She would have all that and more after she and Kurt were married.
She got up, walked over to a golden oak credenza, and slid open a door. She took out a once-exquisite porcelain doll, now dressed in dirty knife-slashed rags. Its gold chain bracelet with a plain gold medallion seemed incongruous but somehow suited to the ruined doll, which resembled Eden Wilder, Kurt’s wife. The face of the doll was scratched and gouged.
Staring at her hated rival’s image for a long minute, she spat full in the porcelain face. Holding the doll in one hand, she encircled its slender throat with the other. She squeezed and murmured the ancient incantation Die, bitch, die!
Still standing, she pulled on black silk ballerina slippers. Then dancing in circles, she switched on the stereo, The sound of ritual Haitian voodoo drums filled the room with their pounding rhythn. A growing frenzy filled Maggi as she danced to the hypnotc and sexual sound of the drums. Panting and full of the necessary hatred boiling inside her, she flung the doll with all her might against the fieldstone wall and heard the porcelain shatter. She danced in a straight line over to where the dolll lay broken and kicked it brutally, her toes striking the fieldstone.
When she had visited Port-au-Prince, Haiti, Simone Duclair, her mentor and friend, had taken her to hear the music. She gave her recordings to bring back, so that she would not forget.
Tensed against the pain flashihng through her toes, she thought of how Dido had pressed her to make love. His hunger for her never seem to lessen. He had been angry, sullen, unlike his usual suave self. How much longer would she have to lead him on while she learned what he knew about voodoo? And what happened once she knew? She shrugged. Life was hard, and only thhose who could adjust to change would survive.
Limping to the couch, she sat down, massaging her hurting toes, then laughed abruptly, winded. Killing, even in fantasy, was hard work. And this had to go far beyond fantasy.
“It didn’t have to be, Eden,” she said softly. “You had your chance to let him go.”
Welcome to Dying on the Edge. It’s now available on Amazon where you type in the title instead of my name. I had forgotten authors maintain their own list of books, so it doesn’t yet come up under my name. Price is relatively the same when ordered from Amazon or Wheatmark, because Wheatmark ships free. Amazon is http://www.amazon.com. Wheatmark is http://www.wheatmark,com/bookstore.
I will put on the second excerpt Saturday, giving you time to read and digest, and I’ll put on one or two excerpts after July Fourth. As I said, Edge is written in blood – mine! No, I have not lived all of it under any circumstances, but I have known enough of its heartbreak.