Paths Crossing and Uncrossing

I am a walker of labyrinths, those circular constructions made famous by their examples in Greece and France and which can now be found in chapels and green spaces all over the world.

The labyrinth combines the imagery of the spiral into a meandering but meaningful path in which the getting there IS the destination. We've all heard that, but sometimes it seems little more than an admonition to enjoy the scenery, as if we were all on a train ride, the countryside of Life flying by just outside the window.

The labyrinth offers a different truth—you are not separate from your landscape. You are inextricable. In the metaphorical labyrinth, like in real labyrinths, there is only one way in and one way out, so you can't get lost. And unlike the labyrinth of Greek myth, you will find no monster in the middle—only yourself.

You may also find others along the path, for labyrinths are not necessarily solitary experiences. You’ll pass people coming out as you are going in, and vice versa, each on a separate, individual journey, yet all together in community and purpose.

My time here at this blog feels like a labyrinth walk—lots of unexpected turns, much shared joy and appreciation, new opportunities for learning and growth with every step. But like all experiences, this one has both a beginning and an end. And I have reached the latter.

I will no longer be a regular contributor to Writers Who Kill. My life is looping in a different direction now. Will it loop back this way eventually? Fingers crossed that it will. Until that time, thank you to everyone who has shared this space with me over the years. May your own path be enlightening and joyful. And may the writerly crew here at WWK keep making space for people like me—and you—to stop for a spell. Thank you, each and every one.

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Tina Whittle writes the Tai Randolph/Trey Seaver mysteries. The sixth book in this Atlanta-based series—Necessary Ends—is available now. Tina is a proud member of Sisters in Crime and has served as both a chapter officer and national board member. Visit her website to follow her on social media, sign up for her newsletter, or read additional scenes and short stories: www.tinawhittle.com.

Beware the Midnight Train

Every community has its local legend, and my small town in Middle Georgia is no exception. Cochran has always been a sleepy little farming community, dotted with cotton fields and catfish ponds. When I was growing up, the railroad used to cut through the swamp behind my house, and on summer nights I’d hear its keening wail and imagine it was some mysterious animal.

I wasn’t the only one to mythologize the midnight train. My friends and I made up stories about it — where was it going? where had it been? who rode those rails through the humid night, anonymous behind the glass and steel? — and imagined a life beyond the red clay ditches. Perhaps this was the reason for the legend that sprung up about the railroad tracks, our parents and grandparents sensing the lure of the outbound train. Perhaps it is they who first started the stories of Huggin’ Molly. Or perhaps her story really is true and has, having passed from mouth to mouth down the railroad line, become legend.

All I know is this: on moonless nights, when the train would come through, if you stood close to the tracks you could hear her crying for her lost lover. Her sobbing would mix with the train whistle. And then you’d better hide. You’d better move as far away from those tracks as you could get. Because even though Huggin’ Molly looked like any other woman, she always wore mourning clothes topped with a long black veil — and a sailor hat. And she had arms so long that she would snatch you right up off the side of the road, snatch you into her relentless embrace, snatch you onto the midnight train. And your scream would mingle with the banshee whistle and you’d be taken away down the tracks, never to be seen again.

I never saw Huggin’ Molly. But I cannot hear a train whistle without feeling a shiver race down my spine. Without taking a step backwards. Without imagining those long, long arms.

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Tina Whittle writes the Tai Randolph/Trey Seaver mysteries. The sixth book in this Atlanta-based series—Necessary Ends—is available now. Tina is a proud member of Sisters in Crime and has served as both a chapter officer and national board member. Visit her website to follow her on social media, sign up for her newsletter, or read additional scenes and short stories: www.tinawhittle.com.

A Murder of Crows

by Tina Whittle

During the first week in my new home, I received several lovely housewarming gifts—a bottle of wine, a jar of preserves…and a tiny, pristine squirrel skull left on top of my deck post.

I don’t know which backyard denizen to thank for the present, but I suspect the crows. They are the UPS delivery crew of the marsh, toting bits of this and that here and there, usually in search of tasty tidbits but sometimes just for the heck of it. Or so it seems to me, watching them from my deck, dark and sleek against the Spanish moss and live oak leaves.

The crows in my yard announce their presence with a raucous “caw caw caw,” which is my cue to toss some unsalted peanuts their way. When I’ve delivered the goods, they use a different call, one that doesn’t match any of the recorded crow sounds on the Audubon site. It’s a lilting “kree-oh, kree-oh” and I suspect it’s their mimicry of my pathetic attempts to caw at them. I also suspect they’re laughing at me behind their wings, like Parisians do when Americans try to speak French.

Traditionally, a flock of crows is referred to as a “murder.” My etymological research revealed that this usage traces back to the 15^th century, when the idea of creating fancy collective names for groups of animals first became popular. These terms of venery (historical vocabulary referring to the hunting of game) were more poetry than science. Owls gathered in a parliament, peacocks in an ostentation, and ravens in an unkindness. The name for a bunch of geese depended on what they were doing—on the ground, they were a gaggle; on the water, a flock; and in the sky, a skein.

Biologists dismiss these terms as quaint hooey. For ornithologists, birds form families and flocks, not flamboyances and murmurations. Crows are no different, their dark epithets notwithstanding. And as much as I love murder—in the literary sense, I hasten to add—I agree with the scientists on this one. Crows are no more murder-y than any other animal (tiny skull on the deck notwithstanding). In fact, they are intelligent, creative, and devoted to their families. They make tools, recognize human faces, and are not above theft and manipulation (check out the YouTube video of a crow stealing a credit card at a Japanese train station, attempting to use the card at a ticket kiosk, and then, frustrated, giving the card back to its rightful owner). Crows feed family members when they are sick or injured, and they form tight-knit families, with newly adult birds staying on to help their parents raise the next generation. They can live almost twenty years, though they rarely nest in the same spot twice. And when they do murder—which is rare, but documented—it’s for reasons, infidelity being one of their recorded motivations.

I’m grateful to have them in my yard, grateful even more that we have some kind of relationship, these birds and I. Their delicate, bony gift was either a generous welcome, a flagrant bribe, or a thinly veiled warning. I plan to keep the peanuts coming regardless.

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Tina Whittle writes the Tai Randolph/Trey Seaver mysteries. The sixth book in this Atlanta-based series—Necessary Ends—is available now. Tina is a proud member of Sisters in Crime and has served as both a chapter officer and national board member. Visit her website to follow her on social media, sign up for her newsletter, or read additional scenes and short stories: www.tinawhittle.com.