In the beginning, the sky was nothing but darkness, an endless void that stretched on for eternity. There was no light, no color, and no life.

But one day, the great Sky God, Arion, decided that he had had enough of the bleakness. He longed for a world that was full of light and color, a world that was alive and vibrant.

So, Arion called upon his children, the gods of the elements, and tasked them with the mission of bringing light to the sky. The gods of fire and air were given the responsibility of creating a brilliant, blazing sun that would light up the day. And the gods of water and earth were tasked with creating a magnificent moon that would shine at night.

Together, the gods worked tirelessly for many days and nights, creating the sun and the moon and placing them in the sky. But something was still missing. The sky was still dark and lifeless.

Then, the youngest of the gods, Aria, had an idea. She took the purest and brightest of all the elements, the color blue, and mixed it with the air. She then blew the blue air into the sky, filling it with a brilliant shade of blue.

And as the blue color spread across the sky, it lit up the world with its beauty and grace. The sun and the moon danced across the sky, their light reflecting off the blue, creating a magical spectacle that filled the hearts of all who beheld it.

And so, to this day, the sky remains blue, a testament to the hard work and creativity of the gods, and a symbol of the beauty that can be found in even the darkest of places.

The pain, oh the pain, it gnaws at me like a ravenous beast, tearing at my insides until I am left raw and bleeding. Each breath I take is a struggle, as if I am drowning in a sea of my own despair.

The weight of my agony is too much to bear, like a crushing boulder that sits heavy on my chest, suffocating me. I am consumed by my anguish, trapped in a never-ending cycle of torment and misery.

My heart is a gaping wound that refuses to heal, each beat a reminder of the pain that courses through my veins. And yet, I cannot help but revel in this agony, this all-consuming fire that burns within me, for it is the only thing that reminds me that I am alive.

Marianne’s Apartment – 9:21 p.m.

By the time Baker and Ed arrived, they could count six black and whites, one ambulance, and the news media already on display. All the major players in the press were there. Baker knew it would be like this until they caught this sick bastard.

The circus was going to be around for a while.

As always, Baker always has two words for the press, and she would say them again before she left the crime scene.

“No comment.”

Stepping under the yellow-crime scene tape, they walked up six steps to an open door, and just to their left, another door opened.

“Hey guys, over here.”

Brad Jackson, eight years on the force, three citations for bravery; shot five times, and big enough to take out the front four of the Steeler’s defensive unit, and not break a sweat, was kneeling next to the body.

As both she and Ed looked down, the first thing they noticed was the tongue. Then the note.

“Odds tell me the note says, speak no evil.”

“Give the lady a Kupe-doll, Ed.”

“That isn’t all,” spoke out another officer, Tommy Banks, “look in here.”

They walked into the bedroom and Tommy pointed to the open closet doors.

Leather outfits, eight-inch spiked heels, full-bodied rubber suits, leather corsets, whips, crops, canes, masks, handcuffs, and feathers. All those features and a lot more for that intimate moment, or the quickie during lunch.

"Leisure, or rush hour," Baker murmured.

She and Ed put on their surgical gloves and started going through every drawer. Tommy pulled down two medium-sized boxes, one which contained photographs. Lots of them. Tommy whistled.

“What, Tommy,” half-spoke Ed.

“This chick was busy, and I mean biz-zee.”

“Key word, was,” responded Ed.

“No, seriously. You need to check this out.”

Baker and Ed walked to the edge of the bed where the box sat.

The first three pictures were sexually graphic, and the positions looked impossible, unless you were a contortionist.

The next few were of the now deceased, Marianne Olster, in various poses ranging from semi-nude, to full nudity to ultra-explicit sex.

It was the next batch of pictures they looked over that produced a flat sounding laugh from Ed and caused Baker to grimace and shake her head in disgust.

There, in black and white, as well as color; in all their glory, were shots of two of the city’s finest, most respected, and fearless leaders. The mayor, doing things beyond description, and the Deputy District Attorney, who just happens to be running for Governor in the next election. His slogan: ‘We will take a bite out of crime until there is nothing left to chew. We will win this war on drugs and send a clear message we will not tolerate this filth in our neighborhoods, our schools, our city!’

No one had the heart to tell him that that crap wasn’t going to fly.

There were also pictures of other state representatives, and a congressman, who enjoyed his visits in Marianne’s little whipping den.

“Think she might have been bribing them?”

“Possibly. If so, it backfired on her. From the look of things, we have a few potential suspects.

“If these pictures get out, the damage done to their careers would be devastating, but would they kill for it? And if one of them did off her, you would think he would have demanded to have the pictures in his hands.”

“I was thinking the same thing, Baker. They would get any incriminating evidence before leaving this little playground.

“You do know we are going to have to question all of them. One of these people is possibly our perp.”

“Yeah. We’ll start on Monday; and we might as well start at the top. Mayor Rydell F. Abraham and Deputy D.A. Fred Allan Mosher. I have to tell you, Ed, I hope neither man is involved beyond their fetishes.”

“Ditto.”

Freddy’s Apartment after Midnight

Alone in the quiet of his small apartment, sitting in the living room, his notebook open, he stares down at name after name after name.

Music plays a soft-flowing number by Debussy.

Next to him on a side table is a decanter of white wine, and he pours his third glass of the evening.

“So much to do. Why do I take it upon myself to get rid of the stench, the filth that parade the streets every day; that flaunts themselves into our home on our televisions? How can people believe the lies these people tell, and then go out and commit the depravities that they do?

“Yes, so much to do, and I will get as much finished as I can. That is why I am here. But, yes, butbutbutbut and but, that little bitch of a cop might have to go as well. She may catch on soon, and then what? WHAT! If she catches you, you idiot, it’s over, that’s what!”

He hurled his half-empty glass of wine and heard it shatter somewhere in the kitchen.

“That is what I will do to her. I will shatter her. Simply remove her from the equation.

“That stupid fucking priest will have to go as well. He hasn’t a clue who I am, but I know who he is. It’s just that I still need him around for backup just in case. Backup? Backup? Oh my, that’s just too funny!” And laugh heartily he did.

Outside, the night was calm, and quiet. Just as it should be.

Going to his bedroom, he removed a large suitcase from the closet and put it on the bed. Opening it, he looked at the various assortments of wigs, prosthetics, and makeup he would use to create another character unrecognizable to many. Tomorrow, he would be another member of the congregation; filled with many sinners.

No one else would be murdered, for didn’t the Lord say to rest on the Sabbath anyway.

As it was, with other nights, his sleep was always plagued with nightmares from another time, another place. They all started and ended the same way.

Agony.

do you think i'm a princess

could i be a queen?

i scoffed at the child's dreams

now i sympathize with her screams

who wants to be queen?

she carries the weight of a world

from her bed, all tangled and curled

limbs mimicking a moth's wings furled

don't you love butterflies

catch some with me

i watch the reel in agony

see her walk the same road as me

becoming who she doesn't want to be

where is she who raced after butterflies

who agonized over the simplest goodbyes

who could stand by herself in every fight

which do you think is best:

living or dying - quite frankly i don't see the difference

hey, honey, neither do i - it's true

death is black but living ain't skies of blue

and i seriously haven't got a clue

just curl up and go to bed, that's what i do

you could try it, it might work for you too

but i really don't know what else either of us can do

can't live for dreams, can't live for me

is sleeping all you can think of as a solution for me?

...............................................................................

tastes like sandpaper .

fold me up a million different ways

and i'll always face the sun

like fire

that's what you come here for ,

that's why they made me .

tripping over my own feet

a

thousand eyeless rattlesnakes

simmering

under your skin and through your veins .

traded my skull for a

paper eagle , with wings of silk .

spilled mulled wine on

its feathers .

stained it all pink

like fog .

tore it up and swallowed the ashes .

woke up

only to dream it all over again ,

I lost control. And that's all she wrote. But then, no joke, I saw poetry in motion. Reality rhyming while I'm mindful of minding business big or small. I came to crawl out of my ego-crib, proceed to promptly sit up straight, witness to reality demonstrate its way with the Way. Okay? And here's what the jam-band would say. It's all atoms dancing, electrons prancing, gluons laughing - but then keep diving, your scuba gear binding, you will get to finding, that there's no separation, just pure space-ness, and upon the amazement and elation that mind-brush will be painting, you will feel the utter and absolute opposite of anxious.

Growing up in the sixties knowing in your heart of hearts you are gay, and lesbian doesn't make for a recipe made in heaven. You have family values to contend with, snide remarks from people you thought were your friends, and top that off with societal values, and well, this does not make the road taken anything but easy. But wait! There is more. Racial prejudice.

You see, David is black, and Ronaldo is Hispanic. Then there is Francine who is white, and Monica who is of Italian heritage. They all went to the same school. At fifteen, they all suffered the same ethnic slurs, and sometimes physical beatings for who and what they knew they were. It wasn't about being different. It was about being an individual with the right to make choices. The beauty in this, they also knew they weren't the only ones to face the insurmountable odds put before them to have the life they knew they were destined for.

But let us fast forward to a better time, a better place. A time where now, David, Renaldo, Francine, and Monica could, finally, do the unthinkable and marry. Thirty years of changes brought them together legally, even if they had been living with one another all this time. It was a time of celebration, joy, tears and the knowing with their faith and belief in each other and themselves, in the end it was worth all the obstacles they lived through.

They were two couples among thousands who celebrated. They were among hundreds of couples who adopted children, whom they raised as any other parent normally would, to allow their children choices of who they wanted to be and become.

Let us fast forward to a somber, if not heart-wrenching moment in time. Sixty-five years have gone by the wayside since this first started. Today, two souls have gone to heaven. Ronaldo and Francine have passed onto another side of life that holds no misgivings. Before the day has passed, with tears of love and remembrance, both David and Monica, alongside their children (mostly grown), walk together and share the times of their lives, both knowing one day they will be reunited.

It is here where we could put this to an end, already suspecting what the outcome will be, but I want to end this with one thing. We are all different in one way or another. But we all want one thing in life. To be accepted for who we are. Straight? Okay. Gay or lesbian? Okay. Bi-sexual or transgender? Okay.

Live your life. Let other people live theirs.