He is late, the figure hunched over, propelling his skateboard

in a straight line, unswerving, like the path of an arrow.

She waits, seemingly patient, in front of the church,

unflinching as the somber tones of the bells

ring clear and strong, breaking through the fog.

At last she sees him as he barrels down the lane.

His approach is loud, the cobbled surface of the lane,

amplifying the rattling wheels of the skateboard,

all other sounds dampened in the fog

so that the harsh clatter of the wheels arrow

straight into her ears, pairing with the bells,

everything echoing off the front of the church.

Normally, he would never venture close to the church;

he never came this far down the lane.

Earbuds tucked inside his ears deafened the bells.

His religion was the skateboard,

it kept his behavior straight like an arrow,

and his clarity of mind kept away the mental fog

Her thoughts were clouded, much like the fog

had invaded her mind. She found comfort in the church,

the severe, sandstone block architecture, the arrow

slits in the bell tower overlooking the lane.

She watches as he rides the skateboard,

scraping along the curb, keeping time with the bells.

They keep pealing, those interminable bells

calling out that it is time to clear the cobwebs and the fog,

it is time to stop and step off the skateboard

as more serious matters are at hand inside the church.

Stop dawdling and traverse the rest of the lane,

because it is time for the reckoning, and guilt is like an arrow.

Guilt seeks the heart, true as an arrow,

appearing through the air, accompanied by the bells.

There is a reason he doesn’t come down the lane,

and it has nothing to do with the fog

and everything to do with the church

and everything to do with his brother’s skateboard.

Like a rerun, the car is coming down the lane, quick like an arrow,

heading for the man on his skateboard, the sudden deafening silence of the bells.

And as the fog rolls in, he tumbles like a ragdoll against the steps of the church.

My earliest memories are of my mother’s praise after I made my first kill. I did exactly as she told me, from the moment I spotted my prey to the final killing blow, my knife across his neck. Weak and of no use to the family, it was my responsibility to see that he was dispatched cleanly and respectfully. It was right that I be the one to end his life, my brother, lest he turn around and end mine.