-The Edith Fowler Series-

Lightning flashed across the sky as heavy rainfall made the ride into town slow. Maverick, a blond muscular man wearing a wide-brimmed hat became drenched from head to toe as he rode handcuffed on the back of a pulled horse. He kept his head down as the locals gathered in the muddy street to see who Marshall Pete was bringing to Bleakville's jailhouse.

Several women shoved men out of the way to get a look at the man trying to conceal his face. Widow Thornton, jumped in front of the marshall's horse stopping his advance abruptly.

"Whoa boy! Stop," the marshall shouted pulling back on his horse's reins to avoid trampling the woman. More women took advantage of the stilled animal and surrounded the cuffed white man on horseback.

"Lift your head mister. I wanna see them eyes," 50-year-old widow Thornton yelled as wrinkles around her eyes betrayed perfect brown skin. The women on each side of the stallion snatched and grabbed Maverick's wet clothes almost causing him to topple. Maverick trembled at the sound of the widow's voice. With eyes shut tight, he stammered three words through gritted rotten teeth.

"Not me Ma'am."

Marshall Pete spat chewing tobacco over the widow's head, the wad mixing with the muddy street, but not before a fine mist of the bile caused some women to blink and wipe their rain-soaked faces.

"Ladies please. Let me get him to the calaboose. You can eye him there if you want to, out of the rain," he grumbled.

"All right Marshall. You take him, but god as my witness, I'm tailing right behind and bringing a loaded pack iron with me," cut in Lucille, a pale white voluptuous painted lady working her trade in Bleakville's Saloon. Widow Thornton agreed with her.

"Me too," the widow called out as she locked eyes on the women in the street.

As the tired rain-soaked women wearing grimy petticoats and dirty boots allowed the marshall to take his prisoner to jail, they all chanted "Me Too, Me Too, Me Too."

***

Maverick stood behind the metal bars of a 6 by 8-foot enclosure. Red brick walls covered with symbol signatures gave no clue of prisoner identities from the past. Two tree stumps and a wood board nailed to each end acted as a makeshift bed and a place to sit during the day. White knuckles and dirty fingernails held onto the metal bars. He watched Florence Jacobs, a tiny brunette with a long scar on the right side of her face give Marshall Pete a rolled-up document.

"Marshall, I've got signatures from 50 women in town that want that man strung up. We've suffered losses at his hands that can never be recovered. Some of these people you know," she explained. Marshall Pete agreed, however the mayor of Bleakville was good-hearted. She was adamantly against lynching any man, so out of courtesy he allowed Florence to speak her voice anyway.

"Like widow Thornton's husband Sam, God rest his soul. After 14 years of marriage, he got shot in the back after a card game... by that animal." Florence pointed a finger at Maverick, then went on. "Lucille McIntyre? Over at the dancehall?" She spent time with him which turned ugly when they mosied up to a room. Now I don't like the way that gal lives but nobody deserves what he did to her behind closed doors." She snarled at Maverick, eyes flaring on a flushed face.

"I didn't hear about that situation Miss Jacobs," the Marshall said, knowing gambling and prostitution crimes weren't reported very often to the law.

"Well, it happened. And look at what he done to ma face," Florence added, as tears started to fall. I was a barmaid at the Rusty Spur the day he wanted to skip paying for his whiskey. I got this scar when I tried to stop him from leaving without settling his tab," she recalled, throwing a hateful look at Maverick again. Marshall Pete, a tall white man with black hair was sweet on Florence until she was disfigured. It was wrong but he wondered how many men thought the same.

"Now Miss Jacobs...Florence, I understand your anger with him," Marshall Pete acknowledged. "That's why I made you unload your shooter before you came in here. The man's evil, but evil men deserve a fair trial too," he lied while avoiding eye contact with her.

Maverick quietly stepped back from the steel bars and sat on his bed board. His movement jostled the chamber pot he relieved himself in during the night, causing some urine to spill out. He wanted to join in the conversation, to say that colored widow's husband talked down to him and deserved what he got. And that red-headed whore? He just took what she promised to give him after he bought 2 rounds of whiskey. His only regret was his social stature as a white man had less clout in this slavery-free state. He lost all bravado when he spotted Florence and Marshall Pete still eyeing him as they talked.

"Pete, I'm getting one more name to go on this petition, she said confidently. She's on her way lickety-split so I'll leave it here with you. When she signs, you must take action then. Good day marshall." Florence turned and stomped away towards the door. She took her gun and bullets from the sock with the number 3 written on it, identifying her possessions and left without another word.

***

Edith Fowler left her horse curbed by the saloon and then walked a short distance to the jailhouse. She opened the row of buttons on her brown twill riding pants to give it the look of a full skirt. A pleated blouse and leather vest complimented the business look she wanted for a meeting with the town marshall. As mayor and owner of all properties in Bleakville Pennsylvania, she would decide what would become of the town's only prisoner. She subconsciously touched her medium-length braided style hair for any strands out of place, then knocked on the door. She walked in without waiting for a response.

"Good afternoon ma'am, I mean mayor," said Marshall Pete with a smile.

"I trust Florence told you I'd be a calling?"

"She hinted at that ma'am... mayor," he conceded.

Maverick stood up with eyes wide. In front of him was a smartly dressed woman who had the appearance of wealth. His jaw dropped open a full minute before he spoke.

"A Nigress?... is the mayor? How can that be?" he protested while shaking his head left and right.

"I'm the mayor and owner of Bleakville, population 857, soon be 856," she shot back without missing a beat.

"Bah, this is a joke. I won't answer to you," Maverick said with contempt. "I demand a trial by jury in another county. And I want the sheriff, not your flunky marshall, to get me a white lawyer," he demanded.

"You can talk to me that way, but I wouldn't go it strong with the mayor of Bleakville if I were you," cautioned Marshall Pete.

"I don't need your advice lawman, chided Maverick as the mayor studied the interaction of the two men.

"Pete, let me see the document Florence left for me to sign," Edith said, ignoring Maverick.

The marshall handed the petition to the mayor. He watched her as she looked over the document.

"Where's my manners, mayor? Would you like to sit down while you go over the details?" asked Pete.

"I can read it for you if that helps," Maverick called out through the bars with a smirk.

"I have no need to sit marshall. Got other business. I won't be here that long," Edith said, then turned her attention to the prisoner.

"Thank you for the offer Maverick, but good white people taught me in secret long ago to read and write which gave me a power few colored have. I can read it just finely. The sheriff is in Gold Rose County, 5 days from here, so I reckon you have me to speak for yeah," she confirmed. Putting on her specially made gold octagon spectacles with a crank bridge, she read the document.

"Let's see now. Maverick James Lawson. You are being charged with assault, robbery, rape, harassment, public drunkenness, and murder. This petition was signed by 50 townsfolk, after all of them came here to see if you were the right man. They all swear you are and I believe them." she stated.

"I don't care what you or they believe."

"Whether you care or not, the townsfolk want swift justice done," she said while returning her glasses to a leather case with her initials hand-stitched in.

"You can't convict me without trial," Maverick declared.

"How many colored men and women you seen lynched without trial?" she challenged.

Maverick said nothing. He sat down as the spurs on one boot tapped the side of the half-full chamber pot, causing a Tink sound.

"Swift justice needs to be done here, Mr. Lawson, but I'll wait till the sheriff is back in town to start your trial here in Bleakville, not in another county," she vowed while the image of her father dragged from bed and hung by a white mob when she was a child flashed in her mind.

"Marshall, I want you to keep him under guard. I'll have meals sent over from the Rusty Spur for your troubles from here on."

"Thank you, mayor. I'll keep eyes on him."

Mayor Edith Fowler decided not to sign the document. The law would decide Maverick's fate, not a mob. Her town was going to be a symbol of justice for all. That's why she became mayor, to stand by that symbol. She rolled up the petition to take with her.

"I'll see myself out marshall," she said while tucking hair behind one ear.

***

Two metal trays loaded with food were brought to the jail as the mayor promised. The marshall put one tray on the bed, transforming it into a table for Maverick. Steam rose from the marshall's plate of rabbit meat with potatoes, beans, and biscuits. Sweet tea with lemon was provided to wash it down. Maverick picked up the dish cover as his stomach growled and looked at the food. Deep in thought, he put it back down without taking a bite. Marshall Pete sat at his desk enjoying his meal.

"The mayor had them make this over at the Rusty Spur special for us," Pete said between bites.

"Go on and eat. Don't worry about poison or whatnot. I had someone watching. They weren't told which plate you would get, so eat," he pressed.

"I might wanna see the mayor for just a short spell to apologize and fix this predicament I'm in if I could Marshall," Maverick lamented after several hours in custody.

"Well, I reckon it can't hurt, but it won't change nothing. She road outta town but will be back in a day or two. You can say your piece then. For now, let me enjoy my meal. You do likewise."

***

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Gunshots exploded outside the jailhouse. Marshall Pete jumped up and pulled out his holstered gun, aiming it at the door, expecting a mob to burst in. Cautiously looking out the only window in the jail, he saw Norma Thornton on horseback with guns causing a stir in the middle of the street.

"Not waiting any longer. I'm gonna git him now! Who's a coming with me?" she ranted to a small crowd. I'm gonna see him swing before morning!" she yelled to a bunch of women onlookers. A little nipper named Willis cheered her on too before the teens Popa made him go back inside General Merchandise to fetch supplies.

"Christ almighty, it's the widow, with guns blazing!" squealed Pete.

"Fetch some men quick, before she's comes a gunning in here!" Maverick squealed as he trembled.

Marshall Pete looked at his prisoner then put his gun back in the holster. He opened the door and stepped outside with raised hands.

"Ladies. I'm on your side." He paused for a second, waiting for everyone's attention.

"While the mayor and sheriff are out of town, let's get some justice," he told the women.

"Yeah!" hollered the widow. "Finally a man in this town taking action. I'll git some rope from General and we do this now!" she blurted out on horseback, galloping away.

The marshall calmly stepped back into the jailhouse. He looked at Maverick. All color had drained from his face. "I'm sorry boy, but I don't agree with the mayor. Sam was a good friend of mine. Make your peace with the lord. Justice will be carried out today."

***

After a spell, Marshall Pete led Maverick by horse to the back of the Rusty Spur followed by Norma Thornton with a half dozen armed colored men on each side. Their job was to keep the prisoner from getting away and show strength in colored-owned Bleakville.

Lucille McIntyre, with ruby red lips, followed on foot in a light blue petticoat, wearing the holstered gun she fired earlier outside the jail with Norma.

Mavericks heart raced as he called out to Marshall Pete while handcuffed on top of the same horse that brought him into town, this time leading him to a tree.

"Marshall sir, please. I was hoping to see the mayor before this posse came," he pleaded. I had time to do some thinking at the jail. I just want to apologize for my behavior earlier and my actions in your town," he said in a humbled voice. I want to make amends to the townsfolk by standing trial for my misdeeds," he offered as tears flowed.

Marshall Pete heard Maverick pleading, but his mind was on how he was going to explain these events to the mayor and stay out of jail himself. Cross that bridge when I get to it, he thought.

Behind the saloon, an Angel Oak tree with branches outstretched like fingers ran between several filled-up pits where the bar privy had been moved to make a new hole. A hangman's noose was thrown over a sturdy branch towering about 12 feet. Maverick's horse was positioned under the branch as the men in the posse roughly cinched a noose around his neck. A makeshift blindfold made from pieces of his shirt covered his eyes. The worn material looked like two damp spots over his eyes as Maverick cried like a baby without shame. He shivered and sniffled on the horse as the bite of rope cut into his throat. The stink of human waste from the outhouse masked the smell of Maverick's soiled jeans. Everyone was conscious of where they stepped.

"Since you killed my husband it's only fitting that I lead the show here," Norma said.

"Maverick Lawson, do you have any final words to say before I send you to the good lord?"

"Please, ma'am. Please, I'm only 35 years of age. I can make it up to you and the town. I, I'll work here as a laborer like I had some colored people do for me in Georgia." he whimpered.

Norma shook her head as the crowd gasped at Maverick's words. In this new day and age, he still owned slaves! She allowed him his say, proving to everyone his words were as blind as his eyes.

"I have some gold rocks I left in General Merchandise. The town can have them all. I just ask for mercy. Please," he whimpered.

"What about my husband?" Norma said. "No gold rocks can compensate me for that," she said.

"Or what you did to me," said Lucille McIntyre speaking up.

"Yeah... what you did," chimed Willis, the teen son of Ole man Bennie Mays.

A loud voice commanding attention spoke boldly behind everyone.

"Who defied my orders to let this man be?" demanded a feminine figure approaching from the rear of the mob.

Everyone cleared a path as Mayor Edith Fowler walked from the rear of the crowd to the front. Dressed to the nines she wore black leather boots and pants, a white short-sleeved Victorian blouse buttoned up tightly from the neck down with an open black vest. The vest brought attention to a pearl handle shooter in a specially made holster that moved seductively on her hips as she walked. She might have gotten catcalls from the few men present, but the new accessory put an end to that before it started.

"Mayor, I apologize. I let the mob take him after they threatened to tear down the jail to get at him," Marshal Pete lied, but that's how most lynchings started.

"Mayor? Is that you? Thank god! I want the marshall arrested. He let them take me. I demand justice," yelped Maverick trying to see through the blindfold.

"I was the instigator, ma'am. I got the town all riled up at the jailhouse," Norma confessed. Can't blame Marshall Pete. It was too many of us for him to stop. But Maverick is guilty mayor. Guilty as sin."

The mayor looked between Pete and Norma, trying to decide what to do, then focused on the only teen in the crowd.

"What are you doing here younging? she asked Willis.

"My name is Willis Mays, ma'am. My dad let me sign that paper and come out here," he politely answered. "Cause he did something to me too."

"That's a lie! I didn't touch that lying freckle boy!" Maverick yelled out, trying to break his cuffs. The spurs on his shoes slightly jabbed the horse causing it to take a step forward.

Maverick froze in place, the rope tightening more as the beast stilled again.

All eyes went from the mild voice of the boy to Maverick. The mayor pulled out the petition in her possession and saw Willis Mays had signed the complaint. Florence Jacobs who was quiet during the events spoke to the prisoner as she rubbed the scar on her face.

"I used to babysit for that boy before he could speak. He got freckles on his backside, and all about his private area. How'd you know the boy got freckles... Maverick?"

She left the question open for his response but none came. Edith pushed sickness down her throat, as her anger rose. Memories of her father dying and the family being sold off like cattle came to mind. She and her mother were sold to plantation owners who desired colored women. Her brother, about the same age as the Mays boy was sent to an owner who had a penchant for young boys. Without hesitating, she swatted the stallion Maverick was sitting on.

"Ya! Giddy Up!" she screamed as the animal whinnied and took off as the noose yanked Maverick backward and fully tightened around his neck. He jerked and gaged while his legs kicked the air. The soil in front of his pants matched the one in the back as he kept flailing on the rope for close to 3 full minutes. Two men in the posse expelled vomit while the others managed to hold onto their supper.

In the stillness of the night, the mayor said a quiet prayer for herself.

"Should I cut him down ma'am?" said one of the men that didn't get sick but was shaking like a leaf.

"Wait till morning, Lester," she instructed.

Without warning Norma, recovering from the actions of the mayor, aimed her shooter and blasted Maverick's body. Lucille did the same followed by one of the men. Maverick briefly came to life, bouncing around like a pinata. The air smelled of human waste and sulfur.

"Now justice has been done," said Norma. The other women agreed, and so did Willie. He wanted to shoot Maverick but the mayor wouldn't allow it.

"You've been through far too much for that son," the mayor said. You don't want to add to nightmares. Now go home."

"Mayor, what do we tell the sheriff when he returns from business?" Marshall Pete politely asked, unsure of his fate.

"We tell him the same thing that folk say when coloreds get lynched. Maverick was taken from the jail, hung, and lynched by a person or parties unknown," she told Pete as the small group looked on.

"Have somebody from our newspaper come to my office in the morning. I'll give a statement," she instructed Pete.

"Yes ma'am will do," he assured her.

"Now go on home everybody, and speak nothing further of what happened here," she said with an authority befitting the town mayor.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. All Rights Reserved

THE BLEAKVILLE GAZETTE - Owned and operated by Mayor Edith Fowler

***Mob Lynch White Man***

Sheriff and Marshall Investigate Crime - Morning Press -June 27th, 1877

White businessman Maverick James Lawson, from Lakewood Tennessee, age 35 was found lynched yesterday morning behind the Rusty Spur, a Saloon run by Lucille McIntyre, age 29.

According to several patrons, Mr. Lawson ran up a high bar tab, then slashed barmaid Florence Jacobs, age 27 across the face with a broken bottle causing 22 stitches. An unarmed colored man tried to help Miss Jacobs but was shot in the back for his troubles by Lawson. Marshall Pete Davis locked up Lawson in the Bleakville jail to await trial. Sometime during the night, a person or persons unknown broke into the jailhouse and took Lawson away. He was found at dawn by the teen son of 'Ole man Bennie Mays' proprietor of Bleakville General Merchandise. Lawson was hanged and shot to death. Edith Fowler, Mayor of Bleakville Township decided not to use any manpower to find his perpetrators because of the violence Lawson caused in her town.

'It seems justice was done the wrong way, but it was done'- she was quoted in the mayor's office.

Mr. Lawson had no family to claim the body but did have a sizeable amount of gold rocks left in General Merchandise. The sum of $85.00 traded for Lawson's gold was enough to bury his body and pay for the medical treatment of Miss Jacobs.

Story written by Lester Brown, lead reporter of the Bleakville Gazette

(writing prompt 'Don't Tell Anyone')

Lily loved secrets. Not mean secrets, but exciting ones, like the time she found a robin's egg hidden in the bushes. This secret was even better. During an enchantment ritual at school her girlfriend Angela had shown her a brown paper bag, closed at the top with small holes in it.

Angela looked around the playground to see if anyone was watching them, then whispered in Lily’s ear.

“I’m going to hide this in my locker. After school we’ll search for more before going home Lily-Billy,” Angela teased, calling her best friend by her tom-boy nickname.

Then Angela whispered in a sing-song voice, “Remember, it's a secret, just between us. Don't tell anyone,” she emphasized.

Angela felt proud sharing her secret with Lily as something moved inside the paper bag. The girls walked toward class pressing the bag between them to keep the contents safe. The school bully, a mean girl, eyeing them with sudden interest started to approach the terrified friends. Students close by sensing a viral moment, watched while recording on their phones.

“Whatcha got there?” she demanded, in a menacing voice.

Lily shifting left foot to right, stood her ground. She took the bag from Angela, clutching it tightly.

“We got nothing,” she answered with a tom-boy attitude.

“Don’t lie to me, if you know what’s good for you… Lily Billy Goat Face,” the bully taunted.

“Submit to me!” she shouted. “Give me the bag or face consequences!”

Leota towered over the frightened girls at 6 foot 1. Her toned muscular body outweighed Lily and Angela as she stood with arms akimbo, her spell freezing the girls where they stood. Fear conjured the memory of a boy Leota punched in the face using the same incantation. The mean girl snatched the bag from Lily’s hand as something inside the bag moved again.

“After I squish whatever is in this bag to a bloody pulp, I’m going to give one of you a shiner for disrespecting me. I’ll let you decide who gets the black eye,” Leota said coldly.

Opening the bag, Leota looked inside. A grassy odor then a misty precipitation rose from the bag. An explosion of water burst out the top of the bag into Leota’s face! The spray traveled up her nose, through her mouth and down her windpipe. She gagged as a strong force of water continued nonstop out of the bag. It then formed a rain storm with thunder and lightning over her head as she screamed and ran for cover.

The living water created a watery message over Leota that read “Don’t be a bully.” It followed the teen inside the school as cameras clicked and phones recorded the event for Tic-Toc, YouTube, and Instagram.

Lily and Angela were able to move again once Leota left their presence. The enchanted living water had a mind of its own, using its ability to empower the girls with confidence by providing a protective barrier of monsoon rain against a bully.

“Well that was a wet surprise,” Lily said smiling. Will the water return to us?” she asked her friend.

“I think it will, as soon as an empathy shower rains on Leota followed by a rainbow cloud of forgiveness. When it does return, I’m putting it in a water bottle so it wont attract unwanted attention. It will be our secret once again, so don’t tell anyone,” Angela stressed as they returned to class.

(this is a writing prompt from my online group on the words: "the end"

Captain Silas as sailors called him, looked out the old lighthouse tower. He watched the swirling grey waters crash against the man-made structure which would one day topple, taking with it a legacy and a way of life.

The bright light that served to warn sea vessels of rocky cliffs and sandy shoals was finally at the end. The beacon of hope for countless sailors was replaced by the National Oceanic Atmospheric Administration's nautical charts, lighted navigational aids, buoys, radar beacons, and Global Positioning Systems.

The captain felt obsolete as he walked down the spiraling staircase of the place he called home as his father did, and his father as well. As generations of keepers tended to the light, their lives intertwined with the lighthouse, now coming to the end. He remembered the dance of the light, the rhythm of the oil refills, and the vigilance needed to keep the flame alive.

When Silas reached the bottom of the tower, he felt the sea raging, as a powerful storm brewed inside him as well. Meeting him in the middle of the bay was a Marine Police boat coming to assist in his eviction of the place with no neighbors, no land, and no zip code. It was the place he called home for the past 30 years.

Looking at the sea splash and churn around him, he turned on a handheld beacon to direct the approaching modern vessel toward him even though it was not needed. He had no regrets. He lived a full life, a life with purpose. He welcomed the end, knowing that somewhere in the vast expanse of the sea, the light, his light would continue to shine.

My writing group chose the prompt: The Start Of The New Year. Here's what I came up with:

The aroma of pine needles stubbornly clung to the air, a ghost of Christmas past. January had arrived, cloaked in fog and silence, a stark contrast to the snowy merriment of December.

Amelia was taking down the last of the holiday decorations inside a cozy little bookstore. A pang of melancholy struck her as she carefully wrapped delicate glass ornaments and dormant twinkling lights. Each one held a memory, a whisper of the past, and a shout to the future.

The bell above the door tinkled, announcing a customer. Amelia turned, a welcoming smile already forming on her lips. A young woman stood hesitantly just inside the doorway, her gaze focusing on the bookshelves.

"Good morning," Amelia greeted her. "Can I help you find something?"

"I'm not sure," the woman replied, her voice soft. "I just... I feel a bit lost. It's a new year, and I want to make some changes, but I don't know where to start."

Amelia nodded, understanding completely. "A new year can feel like a blank page, can't it? It's exciting, but also a bit daunting."

She led the woman to a section filled with books on self-improvement and personal growth. "Perhaps one of these might speak to you?" she suggested.

As the woman browsed the titles, Amelia reflected on her own New Year's resolutions. She had a stack of books waiting to be read, a list of writing projects to tackle, and a lingering desire to reconnect with writers on Prose dot com.

The woman selected a book and brought it to the counter. "I'll take this one," she said, a glimmer of determination in her eyes.

"Excellent choice," Amelia said, ringing up the purchase. "Remember, change doesn't happen overnight. Be patient with yourself, and take it one step at a time. It’s a new year. Be good to yourself."

After the woman left, Amelia returned to the task of tidying up. The melancholy had lifted, replaced by a sense of anticipation. The new year stretched before her, full of possibilities. It was a blank page, but she could fill it with anything she desired.

The bell above the door tinkled again, and Amelia looked up, ready to welcome the next customer and the next chapter in the new year.

Happy New Year to everyone!

An old idea is sometimes best. That’s why I mailed the 24-holiday invites for my Thanksgiving dinner feast. “No one writes anymore. My personally hand-crafted invitations are sure to make an impression on the family,” I concluded with joy.

After hours of planning, the dining room is decorated with a symmetrical theme. The chairs have golden nameplates for each guest. My parents Minnie and Jerry will sit together at the head of the table. My sister Marge and me, Martha, on the left. Brothers Joshua and Joseph, on the right. Males on the right, and females on the left.

“Our family names starting with J and M add to the symmetry,” I point out. My girlfriends Tia, Rose, and Isabella will sit next to me. “It's been a long time since I’ve seen my besties,” I pondered. “It will be good to see them.”

Next are the spouses of my siblings. Derrick will be seated on the right. Susan and Robin, on the left. Their children follow. Daisy, Betsy, Sophia, Luna, Olivia, and Emma are on the left. Aaron, Bernard, Gavin, Earl, Charles, and little Frank are on the right. Girls on the left, boys on the right. “12 adults and 12 children, perfect symmetry,” I say while looking at the colorful welcome family sign in the vestibule.

I’ve prepared fried turkey, barbeque beef ribs, roasted honey ham, and shrimp scampi. There’s still room on the table for homemade mashed potatoes, string beans, black-eyed peas, and sweet potatoes. Everyone’s favorite is mac and cheese, prepared with 3 different cheeses. I placed it center stage next to the meats. The apple and pumpkin pie for dessert will stay in the refrigerator with the strawberry vanilla ice cream until everybody wants dessert. Little Frank loves strawberry ice cream and apple pie, I recall. I’ll scoop out the strawberries just for him. An abundant amount of beer, wine, bottled water, and Kool-Aid are supplied for each age group.

Sunlight from the dining room window shines on the arranged dishes, silverware, and glasses. I take several pictures of the table to remember the love, time, and energy spent on preparing this meal for my family and friends. I wanted Dad to cut the meats but it was getting late. His carving skills match those of a professional chef, however, I’ve accepted my mediocre ability to carve will have to do for now.

I drink a second glass of Chardonnay while closing the dining room curtains. It was too dark to see the Thanksgiving decorations on my lawn. The extra hour of light from Daylight Saving Time came and went as the tears from my reddening eyes. Now my pumpkin spice candles take over the reins to continue showing the visual beauty of the food on the table.

“This truly is a lovely table setting,” I say, taking another sip of wine. “It has symmetry.”

Copyright © 2024 DarnellCureton – All rights reserved

A/N: I read a story on WP years ago about a woman who planned a Thanksgiving dinner for her family. I don't remember the author but I do remember tearing up for a few days. That story ended badly and I never forgot it. That's the power of words. This story is my homage to that author and the writing prompt "Symmetry."

My virtual group chose a writing prompt: 'Pumpkin Spice.' Here is my story

Bjarni watched the young black woman on stage recite her original spoken words with a passion rarely seen. People gathered around her as she cited a message of feminism, unity, and freedom of speech. The standing ovation she received was genuine and heartfelt. It took a while for the MC/comedian to quiet everyone before announcing Bjarni, the next act up.

“Let’s give a warm welcome to Bjarni. Born in Boston, fresh out of an assisted living home.” A roar of laughter exploded from Gen Z patrons as the elderly witch moved slowly to the stage. Eyeing her approaching, the MC said “Today is casual Tuesday. Why did you wear your Sunday best, Ms. B?”

More laughter erupted from the young crowd wearing jeans, flannel shirts, Nike sneakers, and Timberland boots. All eyes were on the elderly white witch dressed in a black gown, cape, and a black pointed hat. Gnarled and scarred hands from years of spell casting, gripped the microphone. “Dinosaur,” a young man shouted as the giggles continued. Bjarni cleared her throat as the crowd quieted down to scrutinize her next move. Bjarni clutched a glowing pentagram charm as she spoke to a sea of tadpoles observing her.

“It’s that time of year so tonight I shall summon the presence of autumn, the spirit of Pumpkin Spice,” she vowed. A hush fell over the room as lights dimmed and exit doors slammed shut. Bjarni chanted “Orange and brown, a harvest hue, Pumpkin Spice, a flavor true. Cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger I command, fill the room before my hand.” A gentle breeze blew through the club carrying with it the sound of falling leaves and cracking fireplaces. A warm cozy feeling washed over the crowd transferring a smell of ginger, apple pie, and Pumpkin Spice to their palettes.

When Bjarni finished casting her spell, the crowd, rose to their feet cheering madly. Some were moved by her words, others by the mystical presence they felt. It was the spirit of Pumpkin Spice. The MC led the crowd in a respectful chant. “Pumpkin Spice! Pumpkin Spice! Pumpkin Spice! Pumpkin Spice!”

As she left the stage, Bjarni said to herself “I may be two hundred years old, but I still got it,” she quipped, disappearing in the night.

Copyright © 2024 DarnellCureton.Com – All rights reserved

My writing group came up with a writing prompt - endurance. I put together this short piece using the word endurance. Story by me, photo created by Gemini

Coming off the turn, Odin switched the Tesla Model S to super drive. The g-force pushed his head back into the seat as the electric auto accelerated from 95 to 170 mph.

“Ahh...Yeah! he screamed with both hands glued to the steering wheel. At 3am, he was alone on the open roadway as lights and the middle lane turned into a solid blur. Earlier, Odin used his magical powers to open a section of steel barrier on an upcoming curve on the road. The opening he made in the guard rail that protected cars from plunging into the river was coming up fast.

He turned up the car's music system while holding the acceleration pedal. The Brothers Johnson's song “Stomp” played at a deafening volume as the car sailed through the rail opening. The nose of the Tesla advanced skyward as centrifugal force simulated weightlessness. Then the hood of the car took a steep nose dive. The experience of driving, then flying, then hitting the water in a matter of seconds put a smile on Odin’s face.

His existence transcended time. Odin was the last of his line of immortal Gods, yet he felt like a teen blond blue-eyed Viking warrior playing with a toy car. As the water found its way into the interior, the music still played with a muffled beat. He removed his seatbelt and relaxed in the comfortable leather seat. With eyes wide open he took deep breaths from a remaining air pocket. He held tightly the yellow-gold lariat attached to his waist. Passed down from generation to generation in his family line, the gold rope was the source of his immortal power and endurance.

Darkness and water completely enveloped the interior as the luxury car touched the bottom of the river. The lariat beat gently against his hands and waist sustaining  Odin’s vital life signs. He smiled as he thought about the next feat of endurance he would put the magical heirloom through.

Copyright © Darnell Cureton, 2024 All Rights Reserved

In the Kingdom of Cosmos, Mortimer and his longtime companion, Ms. Estelle traveled over a winding cobblestone road that led to the King's palace. Mortimer's donkey Elmer pulling their carriage became entangled in honey locust vines that fast grew right after a heavy forest rain. Their pleasant scent gave the forest a sweet smell, while the thick roving branches quickly attached themselves to everything blocking the roadside.

Elmer stopped his quick trot on the road to eat the tasty leaves as branches twirled around the carriage wheels and his hooves. The donkey was accustomed to the phenomenon as lifelike strands twirled around his hind legs. Unafraid, the animal made up its mind not to move again until its appetite was satisfied.

"Good lord Mortimer!" cried out Ms. Estelle. "Our palace arrival will be delayed because of these dreadful weeds. The King is expecting us now! Something must be done immediately!" she shouted as vines blocked part of her vision by covering the carriage window.

Pies fresh out of the oven made especially for King Cosmos, sat in the back seat. Apple, cherry, pineapple, and the King’s favorite lemon meringue were cooling quickly. Ms. Estelle prepared and baked the pies using a secret spell recipe that caused a strong fruity vapor to rise from the pies when hot. If the King couldn't smell the pies while hot he wouldn't pay the extra gold coin for them as was agreed.

"I have the problem in hand," said Mortimer smiling as he reached under his seat for the handmade brass French Curl Horn he brought just for this situation.

"What on earth?" Ms. Estelle exclaimed, puzzled.

"Just observe," Mortimer said confidently. Taking a breath, he blew 3 high pitch notes consecutively to convey urgency, followed by a loud cry:

"Belvedere! Belvedere! Belvedere! Where are you…boy?"

Instantly, two blond-haired Cosmopolitan boys, ages 15 and 16 appeared. Side by side, they hacked their way through the honey locust vine infested forest clearing the road toward the stranded carriage.

"Bravo! Mortimer Bravo!" Ms. Estelle exclaimed while clapping her hands. She gave her companion a look that suggested a proper thanking behind secluded doors was coming.

"Who's that with him?" She asked. "He looks tired. Maybe from all the hacking?"

"That's Belvederes younger brother. They call him Sleepy," Mortimer replied without further explanation.

Sleepy was diagnosed with a medical condition that caused his eyelids to close partially over his eyes making it appear he might be sleep. Mortimer, who voted for HIPPA laws, never disclosed to Ms. Estelle why he looked that way.

"Wake up!" Ms. Estelle told Sleepy as he cleared the vines off the carriage and donkey.

"Why does everyone say that?" Sleepy said to no one in particular as his brother

Belvedere continued to clear the road of vines so the couple could resume their journey. Sleepy freed the carriage of vines and tied a piece of the honey vine leaf over Elmer's head, just out of reach. Swatting the animal on the hindquarters he yelled

"Elmer! Move your ass!"

With a braying "hee-haw," the donkey took off at a cantering pace down the road.

"Oh good lord Mortimer," cried Ms. Estelle. "A Cosmopolitan youth speaking such crass words?"

"My apologies Ms. Estelle. You see the boy has his way of getting Elmer to obey quickly, much better than I." Mortimer explained. "Tis the reason I have him and his brother on company retainer."

As Mortimer spoke, Elmer sped into a breezy gallop to the palace. Belvedere and Sleepy were soon out of sight.

"Well done Mortimer, well done." Ms. Estelle said holding his hand affectionately. As they lumbered on she devised a new plan to avoid the honey vines the next time.

***

Back home Ms. Estelle counted the gold coins from the sale of the pies to the King. True to his word, he paid extra for the smell of fresh pie no one else could duplicate in the kingdom of Cosmos. The profit from the pies, however, was lost due to Mortimer's hiring of the two teens to remove honey locust vines. Working papers for teenagers was expensive in Cosmos.

"Oh dear Mortimer, this will not do at all." Ms. Estelle said sadly.

Looking through her recipe and spells book version 2.0, Ms. Estelle devised a plan to get free help battling the honey locust vines as they traveled the road to the King's palace.

"The next batch of pies I'm selling in front of our home to passersby," Ms. Estelle told Mortimer. I've added a potion to the pies and with my magic fiddle, you will play for Cosmos tourists. This will bend their will to do our bidding while dancing with joy for the next seven years," she gleefully said.

"Brilliant idea!" said Mortimer, as he set up a long table in front of their home with a sign that read “Welcome to Cosmos. Free pie and music.”

Before long, people from all over stopped by and had a piece of Ms. Estelle's pie. Mortimer was fascinated by the melodies he produced just by moving a bow across the strings of a fiddle made with Elmer's donkey hair. People ate, danced, and obeyed Ms. Estelle and Mortimer's requests without a second thought. Mortimer realized that after eating and dancing to a tune, he no longer had to play the fiddle to command the servants, but he did so out of awe. Things were going so well, Ms. Estelle told Mortimer to fire the two Cosmopolitan teenagers immediately. Mortimer stopped fiddling and sounded the horn.

"Belvedere! Belvedere! Belvedere! Where are you…boy?"

Instantly two boys came running to Mortimer out of breath, looking for honey locust vines to cut, but there were none. It was a dry day with no rain. Then the boys noticed people sing, dance, and work in Mortimer's yard without a care in the world. Looking around bewildered, they had no idea why they were summoned.

"Boys, I no longer require your services to clear the honey locust vines from the road. I'm canceling our monthly subscription of services," He said with finality.

"Sleepy, are you listening son?" Mortimer asked.

"Yes sir." replied the boy, eyes droopy.

"Good lad," Mortimer said. Here are gold coins for your troubles. I thank you."

Belvedere and Sleepy looked at each other, then back at Mortimer.

"But those people aren't from Cosmos. There're not Cosmopolitans. You should subscribe to people in our kingdom for work, like us." Belvedere complained. Sleepy nodded in agreement.

"Oh but these people are special," Mortimer said. "Observe the tall bloke from Kingdom Maxim. He is strong as an ox and sports a six-pack. By himself, he can clear the honey vines in half the time you teens did. Plus he can lift the carriage with one hand and change the wheel with the other. Amazing!… and he works without subscribing, no fee." Mortimer said cheerfully. He continued.

"In fact, they're all from the most popular kingdoms. Glamour, Vogue, InStyle, Time, and from the rocky continent, the Rolling Stone kingdom. As they eat sweets, I play the fiddle, and they work without subscribing a fee for seven years." Waving his hand in a shooing manner, Mortimer said: "Now be gone!"

Belvedere and Sleepy left with several gold coins each. As they walked home, they heard Mortimer and Ms. Estelle argue what kingdom villager was going to warm their bed covers. He wanted the little Mexican beauty called Lucia from the Vogue kingdom. She wanted the strong masculine man of color from the National Geographic kingdom. While they argued, the boys schemed among themselves a way to break the pie-eating dancing spell.

***

Three years later the boys returned to Mortimer's and Ms. Estelle's home. Things were still the same as the years passed. Ms. Estelle baked pies, people from other kingdoms ate, and Mortimer fiddled tunes as they danced, completing the spell making them servants. Ms. Estelle had enough servants to make two pie runs a day to King Cosmos, bringing in many gold coins and much wealth since they did not have to pay the dancing servant’s fees.

Sleepy observed a manservant washing and waxing the carriage for the next pie run. He danced gyrating his hips to a tune Mortimer played on the fiddle. He sang "wax on…wax off…wax on…wax off." He worked as the fiddle played.

Ms. Estelle was fed grapes from a yard hammock by several gentlemen from kingdom GQ wearing short white togas. She saw the boys and grew suspicious.

"Belvedere, Sleepy, what do you want here?" she asked, after eating a hand-fed grape.

"We came to ask for our jobs back," Belvedere said. His brother Sleepy nodding in agreement.

"We’re adults now so you don't have to pay fees for working papers."

"But I'd still have to pay a monthly Cosmopolitan subscription for the two of you. I have enough free servants to make the pie run, clean my house, cook my dinner, and feed me grapes." She said while wondering if Sleepy heard. He still looked tired.

"You hear me Sleepy?"

"Yes, Ms. Estelle. But It's not fair. We want our jobs back and these people need to go back to their homes, their lives. Tourist Lives Matter too you know," Sleepy said, speaking up for himself for the first time. His brother Belvedere nodding in agreement.

Mortimer listening to the commotion stopped fiddling and joined Ms. Estelle by the hammock.

"Boys, I must ask you to leave or I'll get my bloke from kingdom Maxim to strong arm you off the premises," Mortimer said with authority.

"Yes Mortimer, tell them who's boss here." Ms. Estelle said while giving Mortimer the look again that she was pleased.

Belvedere and Sleepy looked at each other, then at Ms. Estelle.

"I wanted you to use your spell to tell the servants to go home, back to their families. But I see now you will never let them go. I bet after seven years you'll find a way to make them stay longer. You are a very selfish woman and don't deserve such wealth. I am going to break the spell myself," Belvedere said. His brother Sleepy nodding in agreement.

"You can do nothing. You are still tadpoles compared to my power." She said.

"We may be young, but you are a second-generation witch. My dad is a third-generation warlock. He taught me an easy chant that will break that spell instantly." Belvedere said. His brother nodding in agreement.

Ms. Estelle gasped.

"My god boy! We never say the 'W' words around here."

"That's right boys. You know better than that," chided Mortimer.

"We don't have that fear anymore sir," Belvedere said. The world has changed. Sleepy, you want to say it… the chant?" he asked.

"Let's do it together"

"OK"

They looked at each other, then Ms. Estelle and Mortimer. They chanted together:

"Tinkle In The Pie. The Pie Has Pee. Tinkle In The Pie, The Pie Has Pee."

The GQ kingdom men wearing short white togas heard it first. They gasp and repeat out loud, "Someone's tinkled in the pie? There's pee in the pie?" they yell running away. Soon the servant waxing the carriage hears, and the servants cleaning the house. They all scream about tinkle in the pie as the spell breaks. All of them are angry. All are looking at Mortimer and Ms. Estelle.

"My god Mortimer! What are we going to do? They will come to get us! You better do something!" she shouted.

Holding Mortimer's hand did nothing to stop the rising fear of a mob attack. A vision of torches, pitchforks and burning stakes filled her mind as Sleepy brought Ms. Estelle back to reality.

"Hey! You awake?" Sleepy asked Ms. Estelle. She just stared at the teen waiting for her fate with the mob.

"It's going to be OK," Sleepy said, reassuring. "My brother is talking to everyone now.

All you have to do is pay them for their services the past three years and they will go away without violence," Sleepy told Ms. Estelle and Mortimer.

"Why that's a splendid idea boy!" Said Mortimer breathing a little easier now. Ms. Estelle frowned.

"But that will take all the gold coins we earned over the years. We will be penniless, broke!" She said with dismay and started to cry.

"Don't worry," Sleepy said handing her a tissue for her eyes. "My brother and I will work for you, keeping the road clear and helping out with odds and ends. You can pay our subscription as soon as you get on your feet again."

"You'd do that for me Sleepy?" Ms. Estelle asked humbly.

"No. not for you, but for a fellow Cosmopolitan." He said, nodding at Ms. Estelle. She nodded back.

"Wonderful! You did the trick! All is well! Glad to have you both back on retainer." Mortimer said.

"Just one thing," Sleepy said getting Mortimer's attention.

"What now, young man?" Mortimer said, trying to hold back his annoyance.

"Lucia, a lady from Kingdom Vogue, found her husband among the servants. He wants to talk to you about bed warming? My brother said he's coming over right now."

Mortimer looked up and saw his former servant, the big bloke from Kingdom Maxim stomping over cobblestones heading towards him, eyes red, fists balled. Mortimer did the only thing he thought might save him. He yelled:

"Belvedere! Belvedere! Belvedere! Where are you…boy?"

Copyright © 2024 DarnellCureton.Com – All rights reserved

Bruna slapped the beverage out of Fernanda’s hand as she fought to keep her cloudy head clear. Music played at a deafening volume as Bruna yanked her girlfriend along while looking for an exit in the middle of a corridor as people danced. How do you say help in French? Where was the exit? People scantily dressed danced, smoked, and drank. The smell of booze and pot waffled through the air. No one cared she wanted out. Strobe lights degraded visibility as a group of people dressed in patient Johnny gowns bumped each other in a kind of mosh pit. Bodies pierced with IV drips and catheters shoved against each other aggressively.

The young American women looked in disbelief at the foreign scene while being bumped, grinded, and felt up. Bruna prayed for a way out. An adrenaline rush propelled her forward while clutching Fernanda. Pushing through the crowd they made it to a door with a red neon sign. Bruna recognized the word ‘Sortie’ to mean ‘Exit’ from a language learning app. The metal door remained shut after repeated kicks but easily opened after Bruna gently pushed down on the exit handle. They ran down 3 flights of stairs before reaching a door leading them outside. Their screams rivaled the loud music playing as they ran from the building without looking back.

***

‘48 Hours Earlier’

As she hurried through the airport, Fernanda’s travel case hit her ankle every step of the way, causing more discomfort than the heeled shoes she wore. “Ai!” she yelled then cursed in Portuguese for the fourth time, stopping briefly to rub the bruised spot on her leg that was turning red against her pale white skin.

“Apresse –se Fernanda! You have to move faster if we are going to make our flight! Bruna chastised in their native Portuguese language. She was fluent in English and Portuguese. Fernanda, comfortable living on Ferry Street in a Lusophone community, spoke substandard English. Surrounded by people of her culture most of the time, she had no desire to improve a second language and spoke in Portuguese often.

“Pull the case at your side, not behind you, like I’m doing. It will roll easier and not bump your feet. We have to check in and get on the fly list as soon as possible, Bruna emphasized. Fernanda’s brother Alberto, worked for French-E Airline. He provided them with two complimentary stand-by boarding passes to Paris. Alberto advised his sister to arrive at New York’s LaGuardia airport three hours early to pass through TSA, the Transportation Security Administration checkpoint. After passing security, they had to get on the waiting list for seats left over after paying passengers bordered. French-E flight number 1175 LGA to CDG, LaGuardia to Roissy Airport, Paris France, was leaving in forty-five minutes.

“We're not going to make it,” Bruna worried, walking at a fast pace. Before they left home, she reminded Fernanda to dress for comfort as she. White walking shoes, black jogger pants, white and tan tee top with a tan blazer on top of the tucked-in tee. Bruna picked up the pace. Fernanda, not heeding the advice, wore green five-inch heels, dark green pleated ankle pants accenting a peridot ruby bracelet, and an avocado off-the-shoulder body suit that allowed her breasts to move freely under the leafy color garments as she tried to keep pace with Bruna.

“Oh my god, stop rushing Bruna,” Fernanda said as they approached the security check-in line. “All we have to do is ask for a wheelchair. You tell them that I have trouble walking and need to express through check-in so we don’t miss our flight.” Bruna stopped walking and stared at her best friend. They hadn’t left the States yet and she already had a crazy idea that could get them in trouble. She shook her head in disbelief.

“That is a burro idea. Security is not stupid. They will see right through that ruse,” Bruna advised. “I saw a lady do it on YouTube,” Fernanda said. “She asked security for a wheelchair because she had trouble walking. They rolled her to the front of the line. We can do the same.” Without waiting for Bruna’s response, Fernanda limped over to a black security officer. She asked for a wheelchair in Portuguese. "Eu poderia por favor ter uma cadeira de rodas?"

“Excuse me?” he responded, a little too harshly. After working 13 hours of a double shift, all airport pleasantries were cut from his voice as he eyed the young woman. Fernanda assumed he spoke Portuguese like everyone on Ferry Street. As he stared her down, she communicated in her version of English.

“A, um…I nee da, ahh,” Fernanda thought about how to say wheelchair in English. It came out “Carriage for sit,” she said to the TSA officer. “You know, chair on the wheel,” she continued.

“You need a wheelchair miss?” The officer asked sternly.

“Yeah, that one,” Fernanda replied. “My leg… can’t go, need a wheelchair,” she said.

The TSA officer eyed her with suspicion. He saw a twenty-something brunette wearing tights and stilettos asking for a wheelchair with no obvious illness. “What’s wrong with you?” he demanded, as he observed a bewildered Fernanda. “What medical condition do you have that requires a wheelchair?” He asked as clearly as possible, hackles up along with his voice. Before she could mutilate the English language further Bruna stepped closer to them, hoping to come up with a convincing lie to get them out of a situation her girlfriend was creating. Could they be arrested? Then she remembered something she watched on a crime drama series. Add truth to a lie to make it believable. An idea formed as she read the name on the uniform above the officer’s badge.

“Officer Thompson, this is my girlfriend Fernanda. We are traveling together. She injured her ankle rushing to the airport. Her English is not fluent as you can tell, but the reason she is asking for a wheelchair is to take the weight off the injury and prevent swelling,” Bruna said in a voice she hoped sounded truthful.

The officer looked down at the high heel pumps and then at the two women, unconvinced. “Let me see your boarding passes,” he requested. Bruna promptly gave Officer Thompson her pass. Fernanda looked through her carry-on bag for what felt like hours.

“Use your phone,” Bruna insisted. I put the pass on your phone in case you misplaced the printed one,” she said in Portuguese. Officer Thompson eyed Bruna suspiciously as she switched languages.

“Okay ladies, these buddy passes won’t be honored on this flight,” the officer eventually said after viewing their documents. Bruna thought how would he know they wouldn’t be honored? He was in charge of security, not boarding. She fumed internally but kept her thoughts to herself. It was Fernanda that got them into this situation, not the TSA officer. She wondered why Fernanda was her best friend for the third time today.

The observant officer read Bruna’s facial expressions so he provided more details. “If I allowed you to move up to the front of the line, which I’m not, you still wouldn’t get on with buddy passes. It will be fully booked because of the Paris Summer Festivals which are popular this time of year. I suggest you go through the checkpoints like everybody else,” he emphasized “like-everybody-else” by enunciating each word and looking at Fernanda. Was he making fun of Fernanda’s English?

“You can walk over to the check-in line on the right, without a carriage for sit,” he said coldly. “Once they tell you what I already know, you can wait for the next flight out,” he advised sending them on their way. Bruna decided he was making fun of Fernanda’s English while treating them both like children.

The screening line moved faster than expected. Bruna and Fernanda were able to make it to the boarding gate in time for the flight with five minutes to spare. However, the TSA officer was correct. The plane was filled with paying passengers. They were put on standby for the next flight, leaving in seven hours.

***

Bruna sat on the small air pillow she pulled from her carry-on bag. The versatile use of the blowup cushion made the hard floor in the secure check-in area bearable. Fernanda sat on her over stuffed carryon after removing a brown bag from one of the compartments. “What are we going to do for the next six and a half hours?” Bruna said as she looked around the isle at other people waiting. Some played games on phones or slept in chairs. Others cuddled in light embraces.

Fernanda said cheerfully, “I know what to do. Let’s go to the French-E Clubhouse. It’s in the secure area so we don’t have to go through a checkpoint again,” she reasoned. The Clubhouse has free food and drink. We can watch TV and sit on comfortable lounge chairs.” She assured.

“The Clubhouse amenities are for ticketed passengers, which we are not. That’s the price we paid for standby. The price paid for standby,” Bruna repeated. She chuckled to herself at the conundrum they were in. “Standby doesn’t include the freebies paying passengers have. Next time we get discounted tickets from your brother and a guaranteed seat,” Bruna concluded as she watched Fernanda take a mini shot bottle from the brown bag she was holding. She swallowed half and offered the rest to Bruna.

“How, how did you get alcohol pass security?” Bruna asked while taking the little bottle and finishing the remaining liquor left inside.

“It was easy. I saw it on YouTube,” Fernanda said proudly while taking two more bottles from her stash bag. Bruna took another sip and smiled, happy that they were best friends.

***

‘Paris France’

Bruna measured the distance to the exit stairs from their hotel room by walking heel to toe. “185 feet,” she calculated. Then she took a picture of the red door sign with the French word ‘Sortie.’ The travel app on her phone translated it as ‘Exit.’ Bruna was about to time how many seconds it took to run from the hotel room to the fire exit when she noticed Fernanda watching incredulously.

“What are you looking at?” Bruna asked defensively.

“I’m looking at a worry wart. Nothing’s going to happen to us. We're safe as can be,” Fernanda responded in Portuguese.

“It can’t hurt to know where the exits are and the quickest way outside,” Bruna shot back in English.

***

First Night Out

Fernanda looked at one of the flyers she found scattered in the hotel lobby. It had black text in the background of a shattered mirror with nurses dancing around a disco ball. On the ball written in French was Le Derniere Danse. A housekeeper at the hotel told Fernanda the words on the disco ball meant last dance, displaying the address location under that. For their first night out on the town, Fernanda wanted to go to this last dance. It had to be a French rave dance party.

The event started at 10:00 pm.

“I asked the front desk to call a taxi to pick us up,” Fernanda said. We’ll have a good time. I want to compare a French rave to an American rave,” she pointed out. And of course show off my dance moves,” she bragged.

“I’d like to ask the housekeeper you spoke to what she knows about this place before we go,” Bruna cautioned. “We need more information before we go,” Bruna insisted. A car pulled into the parking lot. The driver started honking the horn in a pattern of 3 bursts.

“That’s our ride,” Fernanda said gesturing to Bruna to follow her lead to the taxi. Bruna let out a sigh but trailed behind. A fifty-ish driver with black and gray hair stepped out of the car and then opened the door for the approaching women.

"Ah, Mesdames," he said smiling. His voice was gravelly but warm. "My name is Guillaume. Where would you like to be swept away on this fine Parisian evening?"

“Go here,” Fernanda said, handing him the flyer from the lobby.

Guillaume looked at the address. After a few minutes, he turned to the women. “This is not a tourist location,” he said. “Where you suggest Mesdames is a desolate side of town. You are tourists, no? How about I give you the Paris tour? France is best savored slowly, like fine wine.” He gestured around him. “The Louvre is a treasure trove of history. The Eiffel Tower is magnificent, yes?” he smiled. “We finish with a walk along the Champs-Élysées; watch the Parisians stroll, and sip coffee at a sidewalk café.

Bruna looked at the man, then Fernanda. She wanted a personal guided tour of the city of love, but she promised Fernanda she had dibs planning their first night out on the town. Fernanda shot Bruna a look that read this night is non-negotiable.

“I thank you very much for the offer but I promised my girlfriend she could choose the itinerary on our first night out. How about giving us the Parisian tour tomorrow? I’d be grateful for someone to show us around.”Bruna admitted. The driver thought a moment, then smiled again.

“I’d be happy to do so,” he said. “Here is my business card. Give me a call when you want the best tour guide ever.” Bruna took the fancy card with his name, number, and slogan: Guillaume Globetrotter, see the world one day at a time. “For now I’ll take you where you requested,” he said.

***

Le Derniere Danse

The taxi driver stopped on a dirt access road leading to a 3 story neglected brick building. “Wait one second please,” Bruna asked the driver as she got out of the car and surveyed the area. Weeds and overgrown grass surrounded a recessed brick building with cracked windows on each floor. The second and third-floor windows were covered with black paint. A glimmer of light slipped through the dark windows for a second confirming some sort of activity. The first-floor windows were clear enough to reveal an artist painting a portrait of a woman in a wheel chair while other people watched. Bruna heard music playing in the decrepit building as Fernanda got of the car. She waved the driver to go.

“Hey! I’m still checking our surroundings,” she yelled as the driver sped off. Bruna dialed the number on the business card the driver left but their location had no cell phone coverage. “Great, just great. I don’t have any signal bars on my phone. Try yours,” she fretted. Fernanda sheepishly looked at Bruna.

“I can’t try my phone. I forgot to swap out my USA SIM card for an international one,” she confessed. Fernanda watched Bruna’s upper lip tighten revealing her teeth. This was a tell that Bruna was getting angry.

“I’ll still check it,” Fernanda said quickly turning on her phone. “My phone still works,” she insisted. I’ll have an expensive bill but it will work,” she stated matter of fact.

“Do you have a signal?” Bruna asked again.

“No.”

“Then it doesn’t matter about the sim card. Maybe there’s a line phone inside we can use,” Bruna suggested. “We may as well join the party,” she acquiesced.

***

Bruna surveyed the building again before walking up to the front door. A rusty metal door had a recently oiled door knocker below a cracked view window. Bruna tapped the knocker twice. The door opened slowly. A man dressed in a baseball uniform stared at them. His face was covered in tattoos. Bruna hoped they were painted on temporarily for the rave.

“Mot De Passe,” he said in French, looking at Fernanda.

“What?” Fernanda said in English. “Is the rave party, here?” she switched up to Portuguese.

“Mot De Passe!” he asked again sternly, in French.

“I think he wants a password to come in,” Fernanda quivered.

Bruna looked at the flyer from the hotel. She remembered what the housekeeper said the words meant. Le Derniere Danse was the name or theme of the rave. Bruna looked at the tattooed man.

“Last Dance?” she guessed. “Derniere Danse,” she said in her best possible French translation.

The tattooed man bowed. “Tres Serre,” he said waving them in.

“That was the password?” Fernanda asked.

“Probably close enough,” Bruna said.

***

The women tried to get inside the room where the artist was painting another portrait. This one of a man holding himself upright on crutches as the artist sketched. Baseball uniform man blocked their way, directing them to a staircase leading to the upper levels. Reaching the 2nd floor, Bruna opened the door. Inside were lighted candles and several people in wheelchairs. Some were on hospital beds. All of them had IV’s attached to their bodies. The room, smelling of raspberry and citrus failed to overpower the sterile scent of disinfectant. The surreal sight triggered Bruna’s memory of her grandmother’s final hospital days.

“What is this place?” Fernanda gasped.

“I don’t know but we are out of here!” shrieked Bruna. They ran down the stairs only to be stopped by the man in the baseball uniform holding a bat. He held it in a menacing way as he took steps towards them.

“Up, up, up! Back up the stairs!” Bruna yelled. Fernanda screamed as she ran back to the 2nd-floor door. “Keep going to the 3rd floor,” Bruna instructed, pushing Fernanda forward. The women looked down the stars but did not see the man with the bat following.

“Since it’s not safe to go back we go forward and hopefully out,” Bruna reasoned as they opened the door on the 3rd floor. Inside, bodies pulsed in a kaleidoscope of colors under a strobing light. Fog machines churned out a swirling vortex that hid disabilities for a moment but revealed others. Bruna and Fernanda saw people with arm and leg amputations. Some had yellowish skin that wasn’t from makeup. Others had bloody head bandages. A strong smell of weed filled the air where Bruna and Fernanda were standing. These people didn’t care about their injuries. They were having fun, maybe for the last time.

“I think I know what this is,” Bruna said, feeling lightheaded from the strong pot.

“What?” Fernanda yelled back. Someone had turned up the music making conversation difficult. On the side of the wall were two young girls dressed in dark Goth pouring drinks in plastic cups. A line formed as people drank a purplish punch. Fernanda smiled at the girls and grabbed one as well.

“The flyer is for chronically ill people. They are partying one last time before dying. That’s why it’s called last dance,” Bruna told Fernanda. This is a suicide assist party. We got to get out of here!”

***

Bruna slapped the beverage out of Fernanda’s hand as she fought to keep her cloudy head clear. Music played at a deafening volume as Bruna yanked her girlfriend along while looking for an exit in the middle of a corridor as people danced. How do you say help in French? Where was the exit? People scantily dressed danced, smoked, and drank. The smell of booze and pot waffled through the air. No one cared she wanted out. Strobe lights degraded visibility as a group of people dressed in patient Johnny gowns bumped each other in a kind of mosh pit. Bodies pierced with IV drips and catheters shoved against each other aggressively.

The young American women looked in disbelief at the foreign scene while being bumped, grinded, and felt up. Bruna prayed for a way out. An adrenaline rush propelled her forward while clutching Fernanda. Pushing through the crowd they made it to a door with a red neon sign. Bruna recognized the word ‘Sortie’ to mean ‘Exit’ from a language learning app. The metal door remained shut after repeated kicks but easily opened after Bruna gently pushed down on the exit handle. They ran down 3 flights of stairs before reaching a door leading them outside. Their screams rivaled the loud music playing as they ran from the building without looking back.

***

Bruna and Fernanda walked on a narrow roadway about half a mile before service was restored to their mobile phones. Bruna dialed Guillaume’s number, but the line went straight to voicemail.

“He’s not picking up,” Bruna said. I’ll try getting an Uber. My account is linked for international transactions.” Bruna pressed the app button and waited for a driver to pick up the ride. After 3 minutes a driver accepted the ride location. Bruna confirmed the pickup.

“I almost drank the Kool-Aid,” Fernanda wept. “Thanks to you we got out of there in one piece,” she said drying her tears.

“That guy dressed as a Warrior gang member with the bat was the scariest,” said Bruna.

“Warrior gang member?” Fernanda repeated.

“I mean he looked like a character in a movie from 1979. Add painting sick people portraits, the weed, the Kool-Aid and you got one hell of a story to tell when we get home.” Bruna said.

A car coming towards them matched the description of the car Bruna requested. As it stopped next to them, Bruna checked the license plate number to the one on her phone.

“He checks out,” Bruna said.

“We can get in.” The driver spoke to the women in French. They smiled but didn’t add to his conversation. The app provided the hotel location so Bruna sat back and enjoyed the ride with Fernanda.

“I’m never going to complain when you check stuff out for us on the rest of this trip,” Fernanda said sniffling.

“We’ll see,” Bruna said as she smiled at her best friend. “We’ll see.”

***

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It was a New York balmy 67 degrees. Inside the monkey suit was a high 75. To stay cool meant to continue moving. Tiny holes built in the suit allowed city air to flow through the interior and mix with perspiration keeping the wearer from overheating.

He watched people from all over the world walk the streets and sidewalks going to and fro in a sea of jackets and overcoats. As he passed by, heads turned, children squealed and tourists aimed their phones.

Some stopped for selfies, office workers chuckled, and a street performer included him in their juggling routine. Each interaction felt like family, a well-played performance in which he didn’t have to reveal the debilitating social anxiety he experienced each day.

His desire to connect with everyone was strong, but not enough to shed his protection.

For Marcus, the suit wasn’t a costume, it was a shield. His crippling anxiety to fit in caused him to use the suit as a barrier. He was convinced people were more comfortable with Magilla the Gorilla than Marcus the Man.

“Hey cool costume,” a young girl said. Her eyes were bright and wide with wonder. Her father waved to him and spoke in German. Not knowing how to respond, Marcus offered a gorilla grunt and thumbs up.

After waving goodbye to the family, he focused on a heavy walk, feet pounding against the pavement. A New York City symphony of honks and sirens drowned out the pace of his movements. Marcus reached his safe spot, under a towering Oak tree in a quiet corner of Central Park. The metal bench he sat on provided a modicum of privacy. Here he shed the monkey suit. Marcus took in a deep breath, the fresh air filling his lungs. He remembered the performer, the father, the little girl and smiled. The suit may have been a shield, but within its confines Marcus found a sliver of confidence.

He left the suit on the bench and headed back toward the city. He would face the crowds, not as a gorilla, but as a man.

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