Where Angels Seek & Dare Beyond Fool’s Wise Praise

Submitted into Contest #172 in response to: Set your story in a world devoid of logic, where feelings govern all decision-making.... view prompt


Contemporary Sad Suspense

This story contains sensitive content

(tw: mental health disturbingly depicted, parasocial influence culture grotesquely illustrated, as well as some explicit but brief instances of physical violence, and of course the disturbing suggestiveness of ambiguity that this narrative presents the following tale; author's note)

By the time you read this, none of it will be true anymore. It will become increasingly clear that the boundaries have been breached longago. There is no need for ourselves to think lesser, once the publicity has done the release against what my convictions has left me behind, limbs lightweight and the subsequent sadness that ate my sentence into the lingering acrimony caught inside my cell-shaded letters: the line belongs to another who has been caught red-handed in the killing of someone who could of destroyed this precarious balance, although I do not suspect it had a thing to do with your own ruse.

The world I was left inside has us all scrambling for the front page, near shrieking at every second for the notice that another's feelings could shake the order wherein all our feelings are just that: the boundaries of the too late for it to affect anyone but ourselves, alone. This is the saddest song, reprised tonight at Graceland manor. 

Already the reception was underneath the forceful splash my invasion of my father's estate had done magnificently, surefire and galvanized, thereby magnetizing my brief stay.

Another tangent, although there is enough space between this open window and the promenading mob just outdoors, the vicious and expectant crowd watching me as the moment soars dangerously alive. “Tell it to the judge, you child killer!”, one of thousands hurls as stones are thrown against my only escape; poly-admiralty, it appears, has been hunting me down for sport until it brought them ravenous at my frontage, and there does not seem to be any sign of surrender from either end. I am fearfully unafraid of what fame has in cold storage for mine alone: plentiful, row after row, columnated, there is space enough for open shelves.

Worship this naked exposure, I rally the strength for my audience gathering at my shadowed footfall’s outline. Enjoy it to the last drop, the adjudicator's last tears spread across the perfume of innocent limbs, seeking solitude in the clamor of many. “Monster!”, they all cry outside my range, ringing false praise with a dejected halo’s garrison, smaller although taller when I emerge within hearing, all voices are circles faded to my ear whereas I was only beginning my fated death’s penultimate harmony.

I pull myself out from the opaque shadow work of my balcony. A helicopter is slicing the air thinner than my appearance into the fray would benefit. After supplying myself amply with hollow-point shells, I take to the front stage. A reflexive twist, feed the fireworks! A scattering of my frenetic rage roams a distant shot into the darkened side of the gathering mob. “She did it again!” Of course. I am always susceptible to playing favorites.

“Child killer!” they howl in bleeding unison. I grin, amorously expectant for the finale. 


The reply was drawn out in rapid succession. The gunfire, blown out proportions, viscera, gory and the return did not look favorably toward my living image’s restoration.

I look upward from the crowd, inching forward and nearer, bloodthirsty at the belligerent, quicksilver sky, both beaming at one another, wrathfully. The moon was shrouded in the neon-polyglot explosion. All of this commotion, I wondered, dazed. All because of me… It must be destiny, to die under the onrush of glorious limelight, persecution, kinetic tendrils of a lifetime sprinting now to devour my bleeding legacy…

My name is Meredith Presley. From a distance, if you squint hard enough, you could almost see the resemblance as the blood gouts that pour from my face and my convulsive poise, akimbo, concentrated almost look the splitting image of our family’s namesake, The King, himself a tornado of rhinestone and graceful hamstrung movement. I wish you were here to see me rise from nobody, father… Humiliating, from a speck in the beautiful glass, a test tube trailer trash odd one out of many of your scattered progeny, now shattering your legacy as a tempest seeming to outlast… This is the saddest song you ever heard in your life… I've never seen a night so long… And time goes crawling by…The moon just went behind the clouds…. To hide its face and cry… I’m so lonesome I could just… Die.


Yesterday has already made my death cemented in cinder, and the faded tragedians arrive at the scene whereas my remains have long been carried away, splayed across a stainless tray and bled out under antiseptic arrays of light and gloved utensils. Doubtful if their own fingers would penetrate my fall from grace with adequate results, doctors and news reporters scramble to uncover some penalty, however paltry, to wherein my death and the death of my followers, comeuppance crept whereupon was my ecstatic hand did my own fingers play so nimble across the stage: 13 dead, including the shooter herself, including three children; 22 mortally injured, field forensics and more expected incoming once the investigators have taken fuller measures to determine the damages caused by last night’s horrible public massacre… The Presley Estate declines further comment, despite the scandal occurring at their beloved Graceland mansion home… Nationwide, and here back at home in Tennessee, we are at a loss of words and extend our sympathy to the travesty that has benighted our fondest homegrown memories of The King, Elvis Presley… 

Unbecoming, saccharine enough to sift the truth from the pan where everyone eats indiscriminately at the remains: already my name has meant nothing but the shit that cannot be caught within the immortal rigamarole. And I am so lonely…. This is the saddest song–...

Describe my position? I dare the truth to dig into my body. The marrow has a broth that demands the charity of the eager, the fanatical, the grooves of lampooning the needless and the fatal all within one kitsch-rimmed shimmery frame. This is the saddest… I am so lonely… What could you do, Father? Entertainment has us in the garrote of legacy.

November 13, 2022 17:50

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Philip Ebuluofor
18:54 Nov 24, 2022

To the point. No rigmarole. Fine work.


E Moss
22:39 Nov 24, 2022

Thank you. Though fond of rigamarole, I always welcome a challenge against my own strengths.


Philip Ebuluofor
15:22 Nov 29, 2022



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