Hey y'all, back at it with My Lone Star State of Mind. Houston's got layers—heat that sticks to your skin, bayous that wind like veins through the city, and parks that feel like sanctuaries until they don't. Hermann Park's always been one of my favorites for that early-morning reset: the zoo crowds far off, the golf course buzzing later, but down south along Brays Bayou, where the Marvin Taylor Trail gets shaded and narrow under those big live oaks... it's different. Quieter. Almost private. I was seeing this woman for a while—sharp, independent, the kind who lights up a room without trying. About 5'10", built like God took extra time sculpting every curve: stacked, confident in her skin, that deep, shiny black that catches the light just right, smooth as polished obsidian. She moved like she owned the space around her, and when she talked about her runs, you could hear the peace it gave her. "It's my time," she'd say. "Just me, the trail, and the water. "She'd head out early, same as a lot of us do—around 5:15 a.m., before the city woke up. Air still cool, sky that soft pre-dawn gray promising another humid scorcher. Earbuds low (she liked hearing the world too), leggings hugging those long legs, sports bra, ponytail swinging. She'd park near the south end, hit the path along the bayou, past the Bill Coats Bridge where the trail dips under overhanging branches and the water runs slow and dark beside you.Most mornings it was perfect solitude. Birds calling soft, leaves rustling, faint traffic hum from MacGregor fading away. The path narrows there, shadows thick under the bridge, stone embankments cool and quiet. She loved it—felt like the city couldn't touch her. But one morning it did. She rounded the curve toward the bridge, pace steady, sweat just starting. Spotted a figure on the embankment below—sitting, not lying like she'd expect from someone roughing it. Tall guy, hoodie up, hands in pockets, just... there. Not moving much. She slowed a beat, instinct kicking in, but kept going. Figured it was nothing. Houston's full of early risers. Then the scrape. Boot on stone, deliberate. She glanced back—he was standing now. Smooth, no rush. Head turned her way slow, eyes catching what little light there was. Something off in the stare. Not aggressive yet, but waiting. Calculating.
Her heart kicked up. She picked up speed, breath shallow. Called out once—"You good?"—voice steadier than she felt. No answer. He just started walking. Not running. Matching her stride like it was nothing. Hands still pocketed, calm as hell. She ran harder, legs burning, trail empty—no other joggers, no cyclists, no dog walkers that early. Bayou splashing louder in her ears, leaves whipping past. She glanced back—he was there, distance constant. Not gaining, not falling back. Just following. By the time she hit the parking lot, chest on fire, hands shaking bad on the keys, she dove into her car, locked it, engine roaring. Looked up—he was at the trailhead edge, standing still, watching. No wave, no chase. Just watching. Like he knew she'd seen him. Like it was enough. She peeled out, called a friend first, then the non-emergency line later. Shaky voice explaining the spot under the bridge, the follow. They took the report, said they'd patrol. But nothing came of it—no one there when they checked, no description matching open cases right then. Weeks passed. She switched to busier loops, daylight runs, never alone if she could help it. The memory lingered—that calm, unshakable presence. Made her scan shadows under every bridge she drove past. Then the news hit. One evening, scrolling on her phone, there he was. Face on KHOU or FOX 26 or wherever—mugshot, press conference, Harris County Sheriff's Office talking "serial," "multiple victims," "assaults on trails and near apartments." Charges stacking up: aggravated sexual assault, patterns of targeting women alone, luring or following. Investigators saying dozens possible, urging more to come forward. The man who'd stood under that bridge, hands in pockets, watching her run? Same one. She froze. Recognized the eyes, the build, the way he held himself. It wasn't random. He'd been waiting. Not for her specifically, maybe—but for someone like her. Alone. Early. In that quiet stretch. She didn't report more—didn't want the spotlight, didn't need the retarmac. But she told me, voice low: "I got lucky. I ran faster. I got to the car. Some don't. "We don't talk about it much now. But every time I drive past Hermann Park, I slow down near the south trails, glance at the bridge shadows. Think about her—tall, strong, skin like midnight shine—and how close it came. Houston, we love our parks. Hermann's a gem: bayou views, oaks older than the city, trails that let you forget the sprawl. But don't forget solitude can flip quick. Early mornings, quiet paths—they're beautiful, but they're not always safe. Ladies especially run with a buddy, stick to lit areas, trust that gut when it says, "something's off." Carry what you need to feel protected. And if something feels wrong, get out fast. She still runs. Different spots, different times, eyes open wider. She's still that force—God took his time on her, and she's not letting one shadow dim that. But she never went back under that bridge alone. Stay aware out there, Texas. The city's got heart, but it's got teeth too.
By Lord Darrick
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