Renegade Mountain
Here a home of Cherokee teardrops, salty stains on its base,
With burial grounds that shift and sink, bodies absorbed,
Roadsides shrub-lined, flower strewn, snaking ever upwards,
Ghosted enterprises of rusting hinges and gurgling water pipes,
Renegade Mountain sits and reneges what others promised,
Preferring to remain pristine for hiking climbers, unfettered,
With potholed macadam, slack-wired ski-lifts, unsold condos.
Archaeology not architecture the preferred mode of existence.
Four murders in a car along a road by a paroled assassin,
Drug deal gone wrong, Cherokee spirits share admixed auras
With the four, strange miasma hanging as a pall on the mount;
Lady pink slippers unplaced on princess feet by a gallant prince;
Fire pink twirlers starred in place, lolling with a listless wind;
Azaleas clustering close in choral gasps, sporadic and forlorn;
Ragwort lining the road, golden-leafed, bobbing heavy heads.
It is the renegade mountain that refuses, absolutely denies
Its place as trophy, synced and risen here with nature's bounty,
Mystery tales and human wales dwell within campfire shadows,
All agog as galaxies spin and stars glisten above Tennessee.
ELC
One Dead, Two Injured in Boat House Shooting
Monica Jarrett
Associated Press
SOUTH LAKE TAHOE, CA - Detectives are investigating the shooting of a man and woman in the boathouse of the vacation home of a prominent San Francisco physician. The unidentified man died, en route to the hospital. The woman was transported to Tahoe Forest Hospital in serious condition. Her identity is being withheld pending notification of family members. According to Sheriff's County Deputy Alejandro Ramirez, another woman, injured and in critical condition, is alleged to be the shooter. She was airlifted to the Regional
See SHOOTING, Page 3
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The woman looked down at the newspaper clipping she had saved. She had been there. She knew better than this reporter exactly what happened. This shooting was the reason she had spent six weeks in this rehabilitation hospital. Now she was leaving, and she tossed the snippet away with the cards and letters that had kept her going through a painful recuperation. No friends or family could visit. Mail, flowers, and small gifts were delivered by a federal agent. She could take nothing with her that would identify her. No one could know where she was or where she was going.
She looked down at the passport, driver's license, and airline tickets provided for her by the FBI. "Chelsea Randall," she repeated over and over again. It still felt foreign as the name rolled off her tongue. She wondered how they came up with the name. She knew the initials had to match the monogram on her worn luggage, but they hadn't even asked her if she had a preference. 'I suppose Chelsea has a similar ring to Chloe, but Randall instead of Roussel? It isn't even French,' she thought as she examined the passport-already stamped with countries she had visited. Italy, Germany, Belgium, and France were all true. They had neglected the Czech Republic, however. She assumed on purpose, as that was where she would be in most danger.
