Friday Freestyles: Noir Style

LOOK AT THIS...

LOOK AT IT!

It's something special, my beloved ATL at dusk, shrouded in something more sinister than darkness...

And it is an anthology. And one of my short stories was accepted for this anthology.

I rarely post on Facebook, but I posted about this, because it is special.

I can remember to this day where I was when I received news of my first scientific journal publication. It was 1992, and I was in my 2nd year of grad school at Emory University. The internet was not a factor back then. So imagine my shock when a friend ran into class and threw the complimentary author copies on my desk. The article was published in the Journal of Heterocyclic Chemistry. I can remember my teardrops hitting the pages as I read the article silently to myself. I have had scientific publications since then, but none have excited me more than the very first one. Now, some 25 years later, i can announce that I have my first fiction writing publication credit. And as I sat at the kitchen table reading the galley proof copy for errors, my tears hit the page all over again. I shed tears over this accomplishment now as a creative writer, just as I did so many years ago over my first major accomplishment as a young chemist. I have a story coming out in Tayari A. Jones' Atlanta Noir, a collection of short stories about the shady side of our beloved hometown. It is not out yet (pub date August 2017) but do your Oldgirl a favor and preorder it. (Heck, Tayari's hilarious jacket summary makes ME want to run out and buy it. Let's hope I don't order them all, lol). 

Finally... I will have an officially published story. I am sooooo happy about that. 

It is available on August 1, 2017, but it is available on Amazon for  pre-order.  

Here is the jacket summary by Tayari Jones. 
 
"People who don’t know Atlanta don’t understand the codes and contradictions of the New South. Yes, Margaret Mitchell imagined the plantation Tara within the city limits, but it’s also the home of OutKast. Atlanta has captured the imagination of trash TV with Todd Chrisley’s magnolia-cream accent but also the decidedly urban antics of Love & Hip Hop. The ashes of the Civil War still hang in the air, but immigration is turning the South into the Global South.

With Atlanta Noir, my hope was to find the writers who could show the city in all of its dizzy complexity. These fourteen writers represent the city’s many neighborhoods and demographics—from the Southern punk scene of Little Five Points to the Junior League world of Peachtree City, where things are not always as they seem. There is more going on at the local Waffle House than just scattering, smothering, and chunking. This is a major international city but it’s still the Bible Belt. A megapreacher’s past catches up with him, and gentrification cannot tame the outlaw spirit of the city too busy to hate. Our airport boasts that it is the busiest in the world; locals declare that even on the way to heaven, you have to change planes at Hartsfield-Jackson. Let us think of Atlanta Noir as an after-hours welcome to the city where we serve our sweet tea with a shot of bourbon."

How awesome was THAT?


THAT makes ME want to run out and buy the book!


I am so excited. I can hardly wait. And I get paid for it. I get paid for my contribution!

This has to be the best thing that has happened to me all year. It has me all giddy.

And look at the list of contributors:

Brand-new stories by: Tananarive Due, Kenji Jasper, Tayari Jones, Dallas Hudgens, Jim Grimsley, Brandon Massey, Jennifer Harlow, Sheri Joseph, Alesia Parker, Gillian Royes, Anthony Grooms, John Holman, Daniel Black, and David James Poissant.

There are three authors  (Tayari Jones, Brandon Massey, and Tananarive Due) on that list that I read. I read EVERYTHING they put out. I have even attended some of their readings here in town.

To have my first official publication next to theirs... priceless.

I could wish for nothing better than that.

Ever.

Quiet Symphony

It is amazing how when at night
I turn off the television and the house lights
In search of quiet so I can fall asleep.
Except it isn’t really quiet.

For in the distance, there is a freeway.
It’s not far away, but it is far enough away not to trip me out and have me staying up all night from all the noise.

Yes, I can hear the cars as they speed to their destinations.

And in the distance, a train track runs. I can hear the hard thrusts of engines, powering trains down tracks of wood and steel.


Suddenly into this quiet symphony blows a hard wind, rushing with urgency through the tall trees that dot the yard. And on this very night, there's an extra special cameo:

It’s the rain,  a soft and persistent patter upon my spanish tile roof. It's working with the wind to batter the trees, causing them to drop their acorns from their delicate branches.

And tonight, there is you
Laying here beside me.
Your breath is slow, deep, and even.
I hear you exhale
Inhale
And exhale again.
And the sound of your breath, it is quiet.
But at the same time
Just as loud as the car, train, wind and the rain.

My head rests upon your chest
Your chest hairs are sparse and downy
They tickle that space that has no name
That space between my cheek and nose.

We made love during this quiet symphony
Our moans and groans special guests stars
At this performance given just for us and by us.
As we lay, you break the silence with one simple question
And it’s the same question you always ask:

“You still think about him, don’t you?”

At a time like this, it would be best to lie.
 But I can’t lie.
I can’t lie.
Not when I'm vunarable like this.
Not when I’m coming down from my sexual high.

And I can’t lie to you, my husband
My husband who has loved me faithfully for so many years.
Love is the conductor tonight, and it won’t let me tell a lie.

“Yes,” I say.  "Yes Lord Yes."

The word is quiet as it slips from my mouth, barely a shushed whisper.
It is barely audible amongst the quiet symphony of cars, trains, wind, breath and rain.
I still think about him, the love of my life. But my parents didn’t approve of him, saying that I would make you, my husband, a better wife.

They were right.
I was a better wife.
I had a better life.
But what of the rushing wind?
What of the falling rain?
What of the hurried cars?
What of these cargo carrying trains?

And what of my heart?

I can’t think of that, my heart
My fast beating heart, right now.
My thoughts are brash and loud, off-key and in need.
There's no need for other words to be spoken.
For now I will concentrate and focus on the quiet symphony

This quiet symphony...
Which plays so softly for you and me.


Afterword

Hmm.  Usually I holler "That ain't me!" after a story. 

But that story is highly biographical.

When I wake up in the mornings, I hear all kinds of sounds. And they aren't loud enough to jar me, but I still hear them. I live about a mile from the freeway, and I live about the same distance from some train tracks. I hear the rain, and the wind blowing through my trees.  Those are always still quiet moments, where there's no television, no nothing. Just the sounds of nature and life moving fast for others.

I was reading something in my favorite author's rough draft of her next novel, and a portion indirectly reminded me of that one line in the story:

"You still think about him, don't you?"

I was asked that one evening after some lovemaking by the ex-hubby. I said yes. He didn't say anything, but I remember him having a attitude later. It had to be connected with that.

The boyfriend I had before him was the best boyfriend EVER. But I let him go because he wasn't that smart. I should've been mature enough to appreciate his best attribute: He was good.

I was young. And I didn't know any better.

Tayari was like... "Wow."

"I'm gonna use that as a writing prompt," I told her.

And I did.

And a good writing prompt it was.

In Search of Opulence

Here's a story for you...

It was a class assignment a couple or weeks ago. It is much different than my usual fare, that's for sure.  Check out the afterword for an explanation of the class assignment.


We should have never put our trust in the drifter we met that warm day on the beach in the South of France.

We were vagabonds in our own right, traveling from town to town, making wicked game of the townspeople and peasants, cheating them out of the few valuables they held in their possession. I was always the temptress, opulent yet distraught, and ever more so skilled in catching any man’s wayward eye and imagination. It didn’t fare long before I would have him thinking he could perhaps receive a kiss, a dance, or something more. And while I did that which I could only do best, my companion Ian, that fancy rogue, would scavenge the valuables of the willing victim, taking that which would get us through another day or even another week. And if we were fortunate, we could survive months or perhaps a year on our bounty. One never knew which rags-donning peasant was carrying a stash of silver coins or gold with the dreams of one day purchasing a donkey or horse, so as to retire from walking to and fro.

We ourselves were able to afford a stolen horse and carriage. We also had swords handy, and twice sharpened daggers to protect our fortune.

No longer were the meager valuables of village peasants enough to meet our opulent needs. Our horse and

carriage afforded just the amount of extravagance to provide suitable refuge among the rich and famous that took holiday on the warm beaches of the South of France. We’d been celebrating our largest act of thievery the day before. Ian robbed the carriage house of the grand hotel in Lit-et-Mixe, while I made merry with the carriage hands. Our take of silver, gold, diamonds and furs were well worth sore lady parts. We’d been traveling for a few days and when we knew we were safe from capture, we took rest on a lovely deserted beach. That night we had delicious pheasant instead of hastily killed rodent for supper. It was indeed a good night.

It was there while relaxing and enjoying the soft ocean breeze that we saw him: the bearded man on a small wooden boat, drifting slowly towards the seashore.

Against the gilded sunset, with the setting sun a golden halo about his head, one would easily mistake him for an Angel, a messenger of the Lord, or even the Christ himself. But as he drew closer, donned in a burlap robe, his hair long and dirty falling in his face and hanging just above his waist, he was far from anything sacred.

“’Tis a sign, Abigail,” Ian whispered as he slowly rose to his feet and walked forward as if floating on air. “A sign.”

“’Tis merely a man,” I replied from my place near our small fire. “Most likely a peasant.”

“It is a sign to tell us that we must pray. Look at the cross he holds in his hand. We must ask for forgiveness. We must confess our sins to the holy man.”

My dearest Ian. He wrestled endlessly like a wild colt in need of breaking when it came to our thieving ways. This was unfortunate, as every time we passed a holy man, he felt the need to confess his sins. I myself didn’t care, as we always arose the next day and continued in mischief.
Ian had already fallen to his knees, his hands to his face to capture his tears.

I stifled a laugh as always. I too stood to my feet . But I retreated to our carriage, parked only a few feet away.

“Bless us, holy father,” Ian wept when the man was amongst us. “For we have sinned. We have sinned against God and against these good people.”

Yes, it was the same with Ian. I would let him release it all. Better for him to have the guilt taken away. It always made it easier to plan our next pillage.

“You are forgiven, dear child,” the holy man said. He touched the crown of Ian’s head with a rugged wooden cross held together by a length of dirty rope. He offered the holy Eucharist- the small wafer and the chalet of wine. “I promise you will have good fortune, here and forevermore. I promise you will laugh and not cry. You will never cry again. ”

Ian received the broken wafer from the man’s hand. He drank from the rusted chalet. He wept uncontrollably, but soon collapsed, from exhaustion, perhaps. When I looked up, back towards the holy man, he’d produced a large dagger and a broad smile.

“Away from the carriage, my lady,” he said.

I didn’t comply.

He moved forward and with one strong move, slashed me at the wrist. A thin trickle of blood fell to the ground.

“Again, away from the carriage or you die!”

I eased myself away. I winced from the pain of the fresh cut. “You can’t do this,” I said. “It is wrong, you simply can’t.”

He laughed, exposing the rotten teeth in his mouth. His hair fell away and out of his face, revealing a jagged scar in the shape of an “X” on the bridge of his long nose. He pushed me to the ground. I landed on top of Ian.

“Yes I can. I’ve watched you from afar doing to others what I have just done to you. “

I scrambled away from Ian. My dear dead Ian.

“Oh don’t worry yourself about him, my lady,” the man said. “A little poison stolen from a magic man in the forest will give him the sweet slumber of a newborn babe until morn. He won’t remember a thing when he awakens from such sweet sleep.”

And with that, the drifter, the mighty man of liturgy, was off- off with our horse, off with our carriage, off with all that was rightfully ours, rightfully stolen from those on holiday on that warm and beautiful beach.

I held my dear Ian in my arms and I vowed at that very moment to find this drifter, this trickster with his blind promises, and make him pay.

I would make him pay for what he had so wrongly stolen from us all.


Afterword

Our instructor gave us an interesting assignment. She generated some phrases from an old "phrase generator" type of software. She gave us a list of about 300 different phrases. We were to choose three phrases for subject and plot material.

I couldn't decide on three, so I picked several...

Here are the phrases I used for my story:


Opulent Temptress
Opulent Rogue
Liturgical drifter
Gilded sunset
Warm beach
Blind promises

I agonized for days over it (well not really. I had about 10 phrases picked out. I stopped whining and started writing.

We were particularly giddy at work over the part about the "sore ladyparts". 

Hey, you gotta WORK to make that money sometimes, ya know? HA HA!!!

It gets a little hard because our teacher has a thing for the fantasy and historical genres. I like to read those genres from time to time, but I am more of a contemporary gal.

But it was fun to adjust.

"You should do more with that," our instructor said.

O_o

Uh, no thank you.

But it was a fun exercise.

Laugh

I was born on the very cusp of the Great Depression, on Valentine’s Day, a day set apart for the giving and showing of love.

And I remember as a little girl, my Daddy looking into my face and saying “Sweetie, there’s no school today.”

And I was sad because I loved school. I loved wrapping my three schoolbooks in a leather belt fastened tight with a rusted buckle and skipping off to school.

But I didn’t quite remember why he said that. I just remembered staring into the face of a man whose face mirrored mine – white, fair-skinned, with concentrated splotches of freckles.

I understood later that times were hard and with Momma dead and gone, Daddy could barely afford to feed us eight kids, much less send us off to school. We all had to work, and pick vegetables from the ground alongside the Negroes.

I met the best negroes out in those fields.  They were real people just like me.  One little negro girl, who had become my best friend for the next seventy-two years, told me “I like the way you wrinkle your nose when you laugh!”

My friend, my dear friend...  she passed last week. And I just got home from her funeral. My eyes were still moist and wet with tears. I cried so much that there were no more tears left.

But I remember my friend. And what she said the first day we met.

And to this very day, nearing the ripe old age of eighty, standing at a mere 5’4” tall, and at a healthy 175 pounds, I know how to make myself happy during bad times. I know where my joy is:

I stand and look in the mirror.

And I laugh.

from my Women of Color Writing Workshop, December 28, 2012.  7 minute writing exercise...

Writing prompts: use the following in a story.

Age: 80 years old

Height, weight: 5'4", 175 lbs

Day: Valentines day

Looks: white, fair-skinned, with concentrated splotches of freckles

A Kentucky Tale: "Becoming"

first posted in May 2009

Last week, my sister Kentucky ran up on me while I was sitting on the sofa watching television.

"Lisa, do you mind reading something for me?" she asked.

I blinked hard.

She is in school right now, getting a Masters in Childhood Education, and she sometimes wants me to proofread class assignments from time to time.

This, in spite of my wailings that science is my area of expertise. NOT education.

She doesn't care. What I say doesn't even register with her.

She thinks I know EVERYTHING.

"It's just a memoir, that's all," she explained. "It is only 3 pages long."

"Alright," I said. I was a tad bit annoyed, as I was watching a good movie and getting my crochet on. "Let me finish watching this movie, then I will take a look at it."

I read her work, and I found it quite delightful.

I didn't know the chick could write so well. I had the hardest time teaching her her ABC's when she was a child. I still think about that whenever she runs up on me for help with schoolwork. I suppose I thought she still had the same isshas, lol..

I guess not!

Her story really made me laugh, and relive a few memories.

I asked her if I could post it.

She said yes.

So, for your Friday, a short memoir piece by my little sister Kentucky.

Enjoy!!



Becoming

I have yet another reminder from my Mama to give my Grandmama a call today.

I don’t drop by or talk to her as often as I should. I guess that comes with age, with being too busy.

I suppose she understands.

I often think back on the times spent with Grandmama, especially the times I combed and greased her scalp with blue Bergamot grease. She’d drink frozen milk with sliced peaches, and she’d doze off ever so often. Sometimes during these moments, she would softly call me by another name.

“Hey Lisa, oh… little Lisa. You look so much like your sister. That is why I call you Little Lisa.”

Grandmama would laugh and play it off as if I did not notice.

She also took me to vacation bible school and we would split a sprite and a hotdog during recess. She’d allow me to ask all the questions in the world, and with her soft spoken voice, she’d answer every last one.

I’ll never forget one particular day I spent with her, a day that changed my life.It was a warm summer morning, over a decade ago. I don’t remember the year.

“Get in the car and stop moving so slow!” Mama hissed. She did not carry me to the car that morning. She did not prepare our normal breakfast of grits, eggs, and bacon. She did not even pack us a lunch.

We must be running late, I thought to myself.

It was a very unusual start to a day.

Mama would go to work very early in the morning, and during the summer she would work late. I knew that morning she was tired, so I did not make a fuss. My brother Kari and I climbed into the front seat of the burgundy and gray Astro van and put on the seat belt. We always shared the front seat. Mama got into the van and blasted the air conditioner. Little beads of sweat fell from her forehead and formed around her top lip.

I shivered and rub my arms rapidly to warm them. “Mama, I am cold,” I said.

She did not respond. She pressed the buttons on the car phone as we backed out of the driveway. She was calling Grandmama to tell her we were on the way.

I grabbed my yellow baby blanket and covered myself and Kari. It was still dark outside.I wanted to go back to sleep, while we are on our way, but I couldn’t. I stayed awake and stared at the lights of the cars and passing highway lights.

Before long, Mama pulled up in front of Grandmama’s house. I jumped out of the van and helped my brother out. We grabbed our bag of toys that we each put into our own “Going-to-Grandma’s” suitcase. Mama handed me some money to give to Grandmama.

We climbed the red steps that led to the front door, my brother and I. Grandmama was holding the front door open. She wore the same blue and white robe she always wore every morning. Her hair was gray, more like white. She had on her glasses and her pink slippers.

Mama was talking to her but it sounded like mumbling to me. I didn’t hear a word, really, because Grandmamma had my full attention.

Something was different about her. I’d never seen this before.

She had no teeth!

I thought she had them like everyone else!

I could not take my eyes off of her.

I walked into the house and into the kitchen, where I sat down at the small round yellow table. I could not believe my eyes. I didn’t know what to say, or if I should say anything at all. My usual morning routine when I went to Grandma’s house was to go to sleep on the bench in my grandparent’s room. But not that day.

Kari obviously did not see what I saw because he was already laying on the bench fast asleep. Mama did not say anything. And I could not sleep.

Grandmama walked into the kitchen, her slippers sliding on the floor. She sat her bible on the kitchen table, and sat down in a chair across from me.

“Are you going to go back to sleep?” she asked.

She sounded funny. I think she knew she was missing her teeth, or maybe she did not.

She had them yesterday. I’m sure she would’ve noticed!

Oh, my goodness, I thought. I just had to spit it out, as I could not hold it any longer!

“Grandmamma, where are your teeth?” I asked.

She smiled, showing only her pink gums. “They are in the jar in the bathroom. I know I need to put them in, but I will do it a little later.”

I could not believe that she was being so nonchalant about it. It was really a big deal!

All she could say is that they were in a jar?

I was full of questions then.

She talked some more, but I didn’t hear a word. I was in a daze. It just didn’t seem right. Did my Granddaddy know about this or was it a secret? How long has she been without teeth?

I came out of my daze long enough to ask the question that had so quickly consumed me. “Grandmama, why are your teeth not in your mouth? Why can you take them out?”

She answered in the same funny sounding voice. Embarrassingly she said, “Well, I did not take care of my teeth when I was a young girl. I had to get these. My gums are irritated so that is why they are not in.”

I looked at her. I noticed that she is embarrassed because she covers her mouth. “Oh…okay,” I said, letting out a sigh of relief.

In the words of my Grandmama, I know that it is not” becoming” to continue the conversation.

Grandmamma rose from the table and retrieved two white coffee cups with the Delta Airlines symbol on them and pours coffee into them. The light is shining through the window of the kitchen and it is time for our morning cups of coffee.

“Grandmama, I only want two spoons of sugar and a little cream,” I said.

She pushed the sugar dish my way. “I don’t know why you like such dark coffee.”

The day was getting back to normal. I could not wait until Granddaddy woke up up so that we could have breakfast.

That day, Grandmama taught me that there is always something you did not know before. The world is full of wonders. This was the only time I remember her surprising me with any inconsistency. Her house, tone, and attitude had always been the same.

She always spoke about the importance of “becoming” a young lady, celebrating life instead of grieving, asking questions and seeking answers.

The End

"I Love My Wife"

I Love My Wife

I love my wife.

And if anyone even dreams of saying that I don’t…

Man, they better wake up real quick and apologize.

I do love her. I love everything about her. Her cocoa brown skin. Her sexy brown eyes. Her body, so fine and thick that when she walks across the room, my eyes zoom in on her like lasers.

I love the little things, too. I love the way the bathroom smells after she has finished taking a bath. I love that sound, that hiss, as she pulls that hot comb through her hair. I love the way her big toe curls slightly towards her middle toe. Her laughter when she talks on the phone to her family and friends is music to my ears. I love watching her as she reads a bedtime story to our son. I stare at her for hours as she sleeps, wondering if she dreams of me. Her light snore lulls me into a peaceful sleep at night.

Yes, I love my wife. She is a good wife, more than I could ever ask or hope for.

But I also love the chase. The chase is where it’s at, and the chase is all I think about. The high I get when I bed a new woman is a high better than free drugs. Going to a club, sitting at a bar, and catching the eye of some hot young thing at the far end is the sport of champions. One flash of my million dollar smile and a casual wink of my eye are my rod and reel. I reel them in like a fish. They're ready to be cleaned, battered down, and fried. Hell, It ain’t even necessary to hide my wedding ring. This is 1981. There are women out there, looking for a man, any man, married or not. And I’m a tall fine dark brother. I am what they all want. I am what they all need.

I please those women. I know I do by the way they moan my name late in the midnight hour. They worship the ground I walk on. They plead with me not to go, but I slip on my clothes and tell them that I have to go. It ain’t nothing for me to bed them and get up and get on to my house, to my wife, to my own bed.

Now, most of them have their own places. I would never take a woman back to my place. Not to the bed that I share with my wife.

That would be disrespectful.

I love my wife too much to do something as foul as that.

I’ve ran as many as eight women at a time, and that’s not easy. Some want more time than others, and some are just happy to get a moment of my time. Some are wild and kinky. A few are innocent and needy. Sometimes it’s hard to keep everybody straight.

No, maintaining eight different households wasn’t easy. It's easier to keep five or six different chicks on the team. My wife Sylvia always runs point.

And as long as they all play right, they all stay in the game.

And if anyone of them acts up? That broad rides the bench.

Hell, she might even get traded.

But I always come home to my wife. She never asks questions. Never fusses or nags. She always has a good hot breakfast ready, even taking the time to fresh squeeze my orange juice. She knows to have my newspaper on the table, open to the sports section, when I come in from a long night out.

But it has been a couple of years since I’ve touched her in a way a man touches his wife. The last time we had sex, I stared into her eyes, and her eyes said two words…

“I know.”

The look in her eyes was a storm cloud of shame over my head. It got to the point where I couldn’t even make eye contact.

No, she never whines or fusses. Afterall, she didn’t have to.

She knew she was the one that held all the power.


*repost, circa 2006. Offshoot story from Sweet Heat from character Fred Ellison's point of view, part of the Buttermilk Biscuit Blues Anthology.

"Pretty Shiny Things"

You like rings.

You love them.

You like buying them out of the bubblegum machine at the drug store, as they only costs 25 cents apiece.

They are pretty: pretty shiny things, gaudy and so big on your fingers that you can only wear 2 or 3 at a time. And you would love to wear 5 at a time. That would be high fashion right there, you see.

But you find that your drug store rings don’t last very long. The band of your favorite one, a bright turquoise one that reflects the sunlight just right, turns from gold to a dirty silver with time. It leaves an ugly green ring around your finger when you take it off. It takes awhile for the stain to wear off. And you notice that the more you look at it, the more self-conscious of it you are.

The other rings, you like them too, but they don’t really last as long either. One is too tight and tends to cut you. It makes you bleed. Another cracks if you mistakenly hit it against something. Yet another one just falls apart for no reason.

And then your father comes along and says he has bought you a ring. You are happy and excited. You open the pretty package presented to you, and your smile melts into a frown. It’s not big and pretty like your drugstore rings.

Not a pretty shiny thing at all.

You take it out of the box and hold it between your index finger and thumb. You place it on your finger. You hold your hand out, fingers stretched wide. You consider it.

“It’s a diamond ring,” your father says.


You nod your head. It is pretty enough. The solitaire stone is chiseled on all sides. The diamond is clear as drinking water. The platinum band is shiny, and it fits your finger just right.

"Only the very best for you, sweetie," your father says, his grin broad and toothy. "I had it made special, just for you."

The ring is less gaudy than the ones you buy in a drug store, that's for sure. You can’t even purchase it there. There are not enough quarters in the mason jar you keep in the bottom of your dresser to buy it. And you can’t quite sashay around with it on.
It probably won’t get the attention from your friends that you love.

But you notice that it matches all of your outfits perfectly. It doesn’t turn your finger green. It fits your finger perfectly, never cutting it.

It doesn’t fall apart, that’s for sure.

Over time, you begin to love it.

This ring is indeed a pretty shiny thing afterall.

You go and thank your father for it.

For he knew exactly what you needed in the first place.

Even before you could understand within yourself what that need was.

He truly did.

In This One...

This is an old story I posted up back in 2007. It was unfinished, and I gave it to one of the guards at my job to read. (They are such fans of my stories, lol). So everytime I see him now, I hear "Hey girl, you need to finish that story!" I keep telling him it was a minor writing prompt, and had no real finish, but he insisted on it. So I did... or at least tried to.

Turns out very interesting.

So, here's a little something for you to ponder over the holiday weekend.

Enjoy!

In this one, you are confused, not knowing what to do or where to turn.

You were just running downstairs to the laundry room to get fresh towels from the dryer. You passed by the answering machine sitting askew under the large oval mirror on the mahogany table in the foyer and noticed the red light blinking. You don’t remember hearing the phone ring or you would have quickly answered it.

You press play to see who it is.

It’s your husband. He’s on his way home, he says. He has a bad cough, feels like he’s getting sick, like he's coming down with something. He thinks its best that he gets home early while there’s no traffic, because traffic will make whatever he has much, much worse.

You look down at the answering machine. You think you are dreaming, but you're not. The hardwood floor is cold beneath your feet and the breeze dancing through the open windows is giving you goosebumps.

You squint hard at the clock on the wall, and see that it’s one-thirty in the afternoon. The machine says the message was left at one. Around that time, you were sleeping in the arms of your lover. You were very sure you had the day to just lay away, because your husband never walked through the door until seven at night, sometimes as late as eight if the workload's heavy. You knew it was enough time to make love and fall asleep in your lovers arms several times over. You were sure that you could get your lover out of there and even have dinner on the table for your husband when he got in.

In this one, you are scared after you listen to the message for the third time. You hear your lover’s voice float over the sound of the water of the shower. He sings along with Peabo Bryson, crooning his undying love and desire for you. He yells for you to hurry up with that towel.

In this one, you stand stark still as you hear the jiggle of the key in the front door, the clicking of the turning doorknob, and the scrub of the door against the doorjamb…

You close your eyes tight, hoping it’s all a dream, but it isn’t. Your husband is walking in, half stumbling through the front door, tissues pressed to his face, blowing his nose, looking as sick as he sounded on the answering machine.

You do your best to twist your mouth into the smile of a concerned wife. But your actions are interrupted by your lover hollering for you to hurry up with that towel.

Your husband looks up the stairs from whence the plea came.

Then he looks at you.

Then back up the stairs.

Then back at you.

“Who is that? What’s going on?” your husband asks.

You say what you’ve heard so many times in so many ways on so many silly shows.

“Honey, let me explain!”

But you realize your words come too little too late. Your husband is running up the stairs skipping one, sometimes two at a time, to get up there faster.

Your heart is beating fast, threatening to jump out of your chest. Your feet feel like they are stuck in mud, but you force yourself, you find the strength to run up the stairs after your husband.

“Boo, I’m dripping wet. Hurry up with that towel,” your lover yells as he exits the bedroom wrapped in the rumpled blue satin sheets that were just on the bed you loved the morning away in.

You are midway up the stairs. You clutch your hand to your chest. You feel faint.

Your husband and lover are face to face.

Your husband laughs. Your lover eyes are wide, his mouth is wide open.

Your husband looks at you.

Then back at your lover.

Then back at you.

“Why didn’t you tell me your cousin was in town?” he asks.

You are silent at first, but you breathe a sigh of relief. You remember a day at Starbucks a year ago.

In that one, you were in Starbucks with your lover, enjoying strong cups of coffee and danish on your birthday. The two of you had just shared a kiss, as you hadn’t seen each other in awhile. You were planning to check into a local hotel for the afternoon, and if you could get away with it, you were going to spend the night together.

You’d just wiped your red lipstick from your lover’s lips when your husband walked in with your Mother.

“What the fuck is going on?” your husband yelled. “Who the hell is this?”

He wasn’t waiting for an explanation. He’d picked up a chair and was about to throw it when your mother hollered “Nephew, almost didn’t recognize you with the mustache. You in town for Nicole’s birthday, too?”

Your startled lover had already jumped from the table, ready to defend himself. “Yes Auntie, it’s me, Eric.”

Your mother goes on to explain that she was in town as a surprise for your birthday. Your husband picked her up from the airport, and on the way to your home, she wanted to stop for her favorite latte.

Your husband’s face flushed red, and he apologized to all.

Your mother asks your lover how his Mama, her sister Esther, is doing. Your lover says that his mama is fine, and had just gotten over a cold.

Your mother made eye contact with you, but didn’t discuss the incident ever again. You and she know that all your cousins were girls, and Eric wasn’t her nephew, and she’d never seen him before that day.

But your mother was fast on her feet.

For she herself had done much dirt.

Kicked up her share of fine dust.


Caused far too much hurt.

You’re grateful for your mother’s quick thinking, her fast lie.

Because now you sit on the steps of your home, watching as your husband laughs it up with your lover. Your husband apologizes for the plumbing problems in your guest bathroom, and is sorry that your lover had to use the shower in the master bedroom.

And he apologizes for you not coming fast enough with that towel.

In this one, you let out a sigh of relief.

Then you are startled by the ringing of the doorbell.

You look down the stairs, the door is ajar.

You hear a familiar voice say “Yoooo-hoooo! Is anyone home?”

You turn your head.

It’s your favorite Auntie, your Aunt Esther.


The end? Hmmm....

Have a happy 4th!

Chicken and Rice

"Have you decided yet?" the officer asked.

I sat up straight on the hard bed. "Yes, I have."

The officer pulled out a stick of chewing gum. He removed the foil wrap from it and balled it up and threw it to the floor of my cell. "Well, what do you want for your last meal?"

"I'd like two chicken wings and a side of brown rice."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Would you like anything else to go with that? A cold beer? A shot of Henessey? Some water?"

"No, just that. Chicken and rice. On a saucer."

The officer turned and left the cell, closing the cell door behind him. He ran his nightstick over the bars, as was his usual manner.

The sound irritated me, grated my nerves. He just wanted to let me know he was the one in control, a cop, and had the upper hand. .

I would've liked to have heard that sound the night my dear Mary was killed. A cop would've been much appreciated that night.

Mary had been out all night, gambling our money away, and I'd just got in from my night job, still smelling of factory dirt and grime.

We'd had an argument the week before, where I told her that no matter what she did, she'd better have my breakfast on the table when I'd come in from working all night.

And that she did. Never a fresh breakfrast, but always something left from last night's dinner.

That morning, breakfast was two fried chicken wings and rice.

And just as I sat down at the table, just as I lifted my fork to my mouth, the men in dark suits burst through the door, wanting the money Mary owed. Word was out that Mary had a big night and won big. Sweet Daddy wanted his money and he wanted it now.

I pulled my gun. They pulled theirs. Mary stood there, in the midst of it all.

Shooting broke out.

I shot my poor Mary, trying to defend her, trying to defend my woman. I killed her with a bullet from my own gun.

Now it was time to die.

But not before I ate my last meal, those two chicken wings and brown rice.

I would eat, and think of Mary.

And then I would die for Mary.

The woman I loved.

From Women of Color Writing Workshop, June 4, 2010. 10 minute writing prompt: "A death row inmate's last meal."

A Vegetarian Tale

Dedicated to blogger Chele, who's on a quest for a Meatless March. She says she needs some new recipes... well, here's one just for you, gal.

I've been wanting to write this little story, but haven't really been able to, as it involves my girl Nikki, who passed last year. I remember her saying "Lee, I KNOW you're gonna blog about this!" I told her back then I'd blog about it, as it was truly hilarious.

We had too many times together that left us cracking up... and seeing *crickets*.

So, I'm finally doing it.

Hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it.

"A Vegetarian Tale"

So...

Back in June, Nikki gave me call. She had just been discharged from the hospital, and she said they were having some type of cookout at her house, and wanted to know if I wanted to stop through. I told her I'd come on over. And I'd bring a few dozen cookies.

(I never go anywhere empty handed. If all I have is a glass of water... well, I'll be walking through your door with a glass of water.)

I arrived, and Nikki was upstairs with her best friend. We all laid up across the bed and watched television. Nikki's Mama came upstairs looking at us like we were half crazy.

She clapped her hands. "Ya'll come on and get up out of my bed."

Uh-oh.

"Nikki, why you didn't tell me were in your Ma's bed, man?"

She shrugged.

"You all come on downstairs and get ready to eat," Nikki's Mama said.

We got up, helped Nikki with her oxygen, and made our way downstairs.

As usual there was a LOT of food. Nikki's Mama had been hollering about how she was going to have some veggie dishes for me. I didn't care one way or the other, as I try to eat before I show up anywhere where there will be a gang of food. Or I roll up on the scene with my own stash.

We settled in the den and watched television. I'd brought some yarn along so that I could crochet. Nikki said she was going to bring out her yarn, but she decided to just watch me instead. We ate dinner, and I had a BAD case of the 'itis. Hard sigh.

If it wasn't a shame, I would've laid up on that couch and went to sleep.

Well, in walks an older gentleman carrying a Corning ware dish. He looked to be in his mid-fifties. He was tall, very dark, and bald. He had a big booming voice that demanded attention. I don't think he was a relative. He may have been a family friend. I am not sure.

And I could tell right off: he was that type.

You know the type: the crazy uncle type. The one who gets out in the middle of the floor and does that crazy dance. The one who's the life of the party.

Yeah, that type.

He goes up into the kitchen and sits his dish down. He makes small talk with the peeps milling around in the kitchen, then he comes back down in the den with us.

And he laid down on the floor.

I didn't say anything. I just kept crocheting and talking to Nikki and one of her hilarious female cousins.

Hey, sometimes people like to make themselves at home. I myself was perched up on the love seat with my shoes off, crocheting up a storm, just like I do when I'm at home.

This fellow (we'll call him "Joe" as I can't remember his name), relaxed on the floor. He was quite funny. Had this Oldgirl in stitches, I tell you.

Nikki's Mom called down from the kitchen (which overlooks the den):

"Joe! What's in this dish here?"

Joe sat straight up. "It's a little something I made for 'Swad!"

'Swad is Nikki's brother. He was in town from California, and he'd left to go see some of his friends.

Joe pointed a finger in the air. "It's a vegetarian dish! I made it for 'Swad!"

I stopped crocheting and looked at Joe. "Really?"

"Yes!" he yelled. "It's a dish I saw on the Food Network. I said to myself, I can make this here for 'Swad!"

"What is it?" Nikki asked.

I am glad she asked, because I wasn't going to. Whatever it was, it was vegetarian, and I wanted to try it.


He relaxed back on the floor, resting on the back of his elbows. "It was on this show on the Food Network in the middle of the night. They took some bananas, and mixed that with some onions and bell peppers and nuts and they baked it up. I though to myself. 'I can make this! I can make this for 'Swad!'"

**crickets**

"Really?" I said.

"Yes!"

"What was the name of that show?" I asked. Could it have been Paula Deen? The Barefoot Contessa?

Joe shook his head. "I don't remember."

I looked over at Nikki, who was being nonchalant about this, and looking straight ahead at the television. I went back to crocheting. (I quickly recognized that it was one of those things that, if we looked at each other, we would've probably both just lost it!)

Bananas and onions and green bell peppers.

I searched my memory. I'd never thought of putting such ingredients together. Never.

Nope, I'd never heard such a concoction.

"I wanna try it!" I yelled.

Nikki shot a hard side-eye my way. I glanced at her, but quickly looked back down at my crochet project.

"I made it for 'Swad!"

"I know," I said. "But it sounds interesting. I want to taste it."

"Ma," Nikki called out. "Bring us a plate of some of what Mr. Joe made. Just a scoop of it. Me and Lee can share a plate."

"Okay," her mama said.

Nikki's mama came down into the den and handed us a saucer of a brown murky goo.

Sort of looked like something you hurl up, you know.

But it was a vegetarian dish. And I just had to try it.

Nikki tasted a bit of it. I tasted some too.

Mr. Joe looked back and forth between the two of us expectantly.

Neither of us said anything... just chewed on it.

We couldn't say anything. What could one say?

It was unlike anything I'd ever tasted.

Like a party in your mouth.

It reminded me of when I was at a club one time, getting my dance on out on the dance floor, having a good time.

Then someone threw a chair from across the room out onto the dancefloor. A fight ensued.

And the party in the club turned into a "run for your life" scatter type of situation. Pure chaos!

Yeah, party in your mouth, but an out of control party. Pungent. Sweet. Salty.

And a whole lot of other flavors I just couldn't describe.

"Hey, you got a LOT going on in that dish, Mr. Joe," I said.

Mr. Joe nodded. "Yes, I thought it was interesting. Just wanted to do something special for 'Swad."

This man sure did love himself some 'Swad. Talked about him endlessly. That dish he made was from the heart. For 'Swad for sure.

"Tell me," I said. "How many onions did you use in that recipe?"

He held his hands up. "I used two big onions."

Nikki gave me another hard side-eye.

"Maybe you should ease up on those onions, " I suggested. "A fourth of a cup of onions. That might help it out."

"And those peppers, too," Nikki added.

"You think so?" he said.

Nikki shook her head. "Why don't you just leave the peppers and onions out altogether."

"Well," Mr. Joe said. "That's the way they did it on the Food Network."


"That might be the ticket, Mr. Joe," I said. "Take out the onions and peppers, and add some raisin and pecans or walnuts or something like that, and it'll be off the chain."

"Yep," Nikki chimed in. "That'll do it."

"I might have to try that," Mr. Joe said. "That might work out."

And I hope he does try it. Because I have never tasted anything like that in my life, and I hope I never will again.

Later, Nikki and I were talking about it.

"My brother will never eat that," she said. He's gonna look down over in the pot and shake his head. He's not going to eat it."

I think 'Swad should've tried it... It was definitely a treat.

I myself have not made this "Banana supreme". I put bananas in my smoothie, my oatmeal, or I'd just eat them as is.

I often wonder what show Mr. Joe was watching that night?

And I wonder if he heard "banana" when they actually said "beef"?

LOL.

I don't know. And I don't think I want to know.

So Chele... that's the end of my "Vegetarian Tale".

I myself have come up with great vegetarian recipes, and a few that were not so great.

I hope you find better recipes than the "Banana Supreme."

In fact I know you will.

Enjoy your Meatless March, honey!!

(Dedicated to that Oldgirl Chele)

That doggone Original Oldgirl Ladylee...

That girl know she can cook!!!

One nice spring afternoon, she had a little get-together for a few of the bloggers over to her house.

Just a little sumthin', sumthin'.

"Are you going to cook anything?" Serenity asked.

"Whatchu talkin' 'bout S23... I'ma cook it down, gal!" LadyLee said.

"I got the fried fish!"





"You know I don't like fried fish, LadyLee," Serenity said.

LadyLee nodded. "Yeah, you the only sista on the planet who don't like fried fish."

"But I do have the barbeque chicken and ribs!"

Serenity smiled hard like Miss Celie.

"LadyLee," Hassan said. "Uh, you know I don't partake of the swine."

"That's cool, big bruh. I got the grilled shrimps and the grilled crabs. Just for you!"

"And I got that good Tequila Lime Chicken." (courtesy Blogger Darius Everydaycookin.com)

"I like that, LadyLee," The Lbeezy said. She tied her Souljah girl bandana around her head. "I'll have a plate of that right there."

Ladylee opened the cabinet and grabbed a stack of plates. She handed them to LBeezy."You can have whatever you want, girl! There's plenty for all."

"LadyLee?"

"What is it, Hassan?"

"You know Chele likes fried chicken."

LadyLee looked over at the stove. "Dude, don't you see that chicken frying on the stove?"

"Oh, my bad," he said.

"Yeah. You know I got my girl Chele covered. And that chicken'll be ready by the time she get here."

LadyLee put a pan of cornbread in the stove. "Speaking of Chele, has anyone seen her?"

Everyone shook their heads. A chorus of murmered "No's" filled the room.

"Well, I told her to stop by the store and pick me up some toothpicks. She'll probably be along soon."

Just then there was a commotion outside. Car tires screeched. A car door slammed so hard that the car window broke.

Everyone in the House of LadyLee ran to the window.

"It's Chele!" Diva in Demand yelled. "And she's beating someone down."

Everyone in the House of LadyLee ran outside.

"Chele, what are you doing?" LadyLee yelled.

"I'm kicking FEAR's behind!" she yelled. She threw a hard left punch.

"We have to go help her," everyone yelled in what felt like one big united voice.

"Na'wl," LadyLee said. "Na'wl, let Chele handle her business. This is something she have to do for herself."

Everyone continued to stand around and watch the beat down.

"Chele," LadyLee said. "Come on in the house, now. You've beat up on FEAR enough. Time to eat."

"I am not afraid!" Chele yelled.

"Yes, we know you're not afraid, honey. We know. Come on in the house."

"I saw FEAR walking up the street towards me, and I had to get him!" Chele threw a right hook. "I am NOT afraid!"

"We know that Chele."

The Lbeezy took off her Souljah rag, ran up on the fight and started beating FEAR with the rag.

"Beezy! Get back over here."

"I had to get some licks in, too!" Beezy yelled.

Everyone continued to watch the beatdown.

"I AM NOT AFRAID!" Chele yelled.

LadyLee looked at her watch. "I'm not sure how long she's gonna be. I'm going back in the house to take the chicken out the grease. I don't want it to burn."

No one said a word.

"Ya'll just leave her alone. Let her work it all out."

LadyLee went back into the house.

LadyLee came back out a few minutes later. Everyone was in on the beatdown.

"I told ya'll not to bother her."

"We had to get in on it!" everyone yelled.

LadyLee looked down at the skillet of hot grease in her hand. She'd just finished frying up all the chicken.

Might as well get in on it too, she thought.

Hmmm...

Alright... that was a cheesy story.

Just a bootleg thrown together story for you all. It continued, got a little rambunctious. Chele threw my beloved toothpicks at FEAR. In addition to my skillet of hot grease, I think I brought out a glock or a shotgun. (You know how violent I tend to get).

But I shortened it...

And in the process, I made you hungry, didn't I?

LOL... Thought I would feed you all this good Thursday morning!

You know, I am so encouraged by Chele's battle with fear. I get so much from her posts concerning such, as she has been quite candid about her thoughts...

And I know if FEAR was a person, and just so happened to walk around a corner right about now, Chele would commence to beating him down... with her fists, her purse, and her high heel shoes.

And I have learned from her that whatever issue I am tackling, I have to get mighty violent and aggressive about it. I mean, really get serious about it. Chele is over there reading books on handling fear, giving her thoughts on it, meditating, thinking about it.

Soon, we'll be calling that Oldgirl a "Faith Giant".

Yeah. That's what's hot.

So thanks, Chele, for being honest about your issues with FEAR.

As it has allowed me to be still and examine my own issues with FEAR.

Stay tuned...

Storytime: "Apartment 2C"

There are two types of writing classes that I've participated in: one in which I take a work in progress through the class, and another one where I did writing exercises (the beginners class). Every once in awhile, I'd take the beginners class over. I liked the routine of the exercises because I could just use them to explore facets of some of the gazillion stories I have laying around the house. I've actually generated fascinating material from the exercises.

The instructions for one particular exercise was quite simple: take a story of ours and write the beginning of the story. I had one that I'd particularly liked, Leaving Jersey, about a woman leaving an abusive boyfriend in a most unorthodox manner.

So this short vignette "Apartment 2c" is what I imagined was the very beginning of that main character's problems...

Now, there's a character in here, Elba, who my writing class just LOVED. She was a seemingly innocent jewish woman, but there was more to her than met the eye. Let's just say, uh, she was NOT one to messed with. We won't go into that. But she is the most colorful people I've ever written. She is loosely based on the landlord of the boarding house I lived in when I first moved to New Orleans 11 years ago (See "Mark Your Territory Part III") .

I've also posted another story excerpt involving Elba, one that was a bit horrific (see "No More"). I think I'd been reading a horror story about a dog during that time... Gotta watch what I read while I'm writing.

Anyway, here's my "beginning" of the story.



Apartment 2C

Elba didn’t know much about the young woman who lived next door in Apartment 2C.

She’d moved in some six months ago, mostly kept to herself. A silent neighbor was fine with Elba. The last tenants were rowdy tattoo artists who played loud rock music all hours of the night. She complained to the Super, called the police even, but nothing was done. When their lease expired, it wasn’t renewed. They simply moved away.

And then the quiet young lady moved in.

“Her name’s Danielle Acosta,” the Super said one day while he and Elba were sitting out on the front stoop of the building, enjoying cool breezes brought on by the fall weather. “She lived over in Philly for the past 5 years. I thought she was Latino or something, but the background check said she was black.”

“Really,” Elba said, hoping he would continue. She wasn’t a gossiper like him. She liked to sit back and observe closely instead.

He lit a cigar and puffed a few times to get it to burn just right. “You know, I don’t ever ask about no race or nothing. Just couldn’t tell with her. Coulda been white for all I know. Anyway, she was in Georgia before that, down in Atlanta. She’s some kind of engineer over in Center City. Wanted to move out of the city because it was too expensive.”

“Is that right?” Elba asked. “I haven’t had a chance to talk with her.”

“She’s nice,” he said, and blew nasty smelling smoke up into the air. “Pays on time. That’s all that matters to me, you know.”

The Super was the nosiest gossip in Jersey. Elba knew if he knew anything strange about Danielle, he would tell her. She and Danielle were the only two tenants on that floor and that was good enough for Elba.

Elba never went over to introduce herself. She watched from the living room window instead. She had a good view of the whole street from there.

The girl, in addition to being quiet, was very consistent. She left every morning at seven o’clock sharp and caught the seven ten bus. She’d return around six in the evening, give or take a few minutes. She always wore casual shirts and khakis and a pair of what looked to be Rockports.

“Work clothes,” Elba said to herself while watching from her window one morning. “She doesn’t have a fancy office job. Engineer. Must work with engines or something.”

Elba also noticed that Danielle would sometimes leave in the evenings. “High heels. Short skirt. She got a boyfriend,” Elba murmured to herself as she parted the sheer curtains just a tad with her fingers to get a better look at Danielle. Danielle walked across the street to the locked garage where she stored her car, an old white Nova. She wouldn’t come back home until late, or sometimes not at all until the next afternoon.

Elba met that boyfriend one day out in the stairwell leading up to her apartment floor. She was laden down with bags of grocery just purchased across the street at Walter’s Stop-n-Shop. He brushed past her in his shiny green sports jersey and baggy blue jeans, damn near knocking her over. He didn’t even say excuse me. He strutted right up to Danielle’s door and knocked on it. Danielle opened it and he poured the charm on.

“Hey baby,” he breathed. It was followed by a soft giggle from Danielle before she yanked him through the door.

Elba scrunched up her face. “Leave him alone, honey,” she murmured to herself as she fumbled with her keys at her own front door. “Mr.Bad News, that’s what he is.”

He moved in with Danielle, and every night, the boom of loud rap music grated Elba’s nerves. She knew that the quiet Danielle wasn’t responsible for such madness.

Had to be the new fella.

But Elba didn’t know how bad “Mr.Bad News” was until she was standing in the bathroom one night a few months later, brushing her hair before bed. She heard a loud noise. She backed up from the bathroom mirror and was about to go out into the living room when the boom occurred again, this time shaking her whole apartment. She jumped when she heard a loud crash in her bathroom. She ran back in to see the crystal glass that she used for soaking her bridgework on the floor, smashed into a million pieces.

Elba knew those sounds all too well. Had been the brunt of them herself over the years.

Something wasn’t being thrown around. Someone was being thrown around.

And she knew that this someone was the nice quiet unassuming young woman who lived next door in Apartment 2C.

It was about time for Elba to go over and introduce herself.

A Kentucky Tale: "Becoming"

Last week, Kentucky ran up on me while I was sitting on the sofa watching television.

"Lisa, do you mind reading something for me?" she asked.

I blinked hard.

She is in school right now, getting a Masters in Childhood Education, and she sometimes wants me to proofread class assignments from time to time.

This, in spite of my wailings that science is my area of expertise. NOT education.

She doesn't care. What I say doesn't even register with her.

She thinks I know EVERYTHING.

"It's just a memoir, that's all," she explained. "It is only 3 pages long."

"Alright," I said. I was a tad bit annoyed, as I was watching a good movie and getting my crochet on. "Let me finish watching this movie, then I will take a look at it."

I read her work, and I found it quite delightful.

I didn't know the chick could write so well. I had the hardest time teaching her her ABC's when she was a child. I still think about that whenever she runs up on me for help with schoolwork. I suppose I thought she still had the same isshas, lol..

I guess not!

Her story really made me laugh, and relive a few memories.

I asked her if I could post it.

She said yes.

So, for your Friday, a short memoir piece by my little sister Kentucky.

Enjoy!!



Becoming

I have yet another reminder from my Mama to give my Grandmama a call today.

I don’t drop by or talk to her as often as I should. I guess that comes with age, with being too busy.

I suppose she understands.

I often think back on the times spent with Grandmama, especially the times I combed and greased her scalp with blue Bergamot grease. She’d drink frozen milk with sliced peaches, and she’d doze off ever so often. Sometimes during these moments, she would softly call me by another name.

“Hey Lisa, oh… little Lisa. You look so much like your sister. That is why I call you Little Lisa.”

Grandmama would laugh and play it off as if I did not notice.

She also took me to vacation bible school and we would split a sprite and a hotdog during recess. She’d allow me to ask all the questions in the world, and with her soft spoken voice, she’d answer every last one.

I’ll never forget one particular day I spent with her, a day that changed my life.It was a warm summer morning, over a decade ago. I don’t remember the year.

“Get in the car and stop moving so slow!” Mama hissed. She did not carry me to the car that morning. She did not prepare our normal breakfast of grits, eggs, and bacon. She did not even pack us a lunch.

We must be running late, I thought to myself.

It was a very unusual start to a day.

Mama would go to work very early in the morning, and during the summer she would work late. I knew that morning she was tired, so I did not make a fuss. My brother Kari and I climbed into the front seat of the burgundy and gray Astro van and put on the seat belt. We always shared the front seat. Mama got into the van and blasted the air conditioner. Little beads of sweat fell from her forehead and formed around her top lip.

I shivered and rub my arms rapidly to warm them. “Mama, I am cold,” I said.

She did not respond. She pressed the buttons on the car phone as we backed out of the driveway. She was calling Grandmama to tell her we were on the way.

I grabbed my yellow baby blanket and covered myself and Kari. It was still dark outside.I wanted to go back to sleep, while we are on our way, but I couldn’t. I stayed awake and stared at the lights of the cars and passing highway lights.

Before long, Mama pulled up in front of Grandmama’s house. I jumped out of the van and helped my brother out. We grabbed our bag of toys that we each put into our own “Going-to-Grandma’s” suitcase. Mama handed me some money to give to Grandmama.

We climbed the red steps that led to the front door, my brother and I. Grandmama was holding the front door open. She wore the same blue and white robe she always wore every morning. Her hair was gray, more like white. She had on her glasses and her pink slippers.

Mama was talking to her but it sounded like mumbling to me. I didn’t hear a word, really, because Grandmamma had my full attention.

Something was different about her. I’d never seen this before.

She had no teeth!

I thought she had them like everyone else!

I could not take my eyes off of her.

I walked into the house and into the kitchen, where I sat down at the small round yellow table. I could not believe my eyes. I didn’t know what to say, or if I should say anything at all. My usual morning routine when I went to Grandma’s house was to go to sleep on the bench in my grandparent’s room. But not that day.

Kari obviously did not see what I saw because he was already laying on the bench fast asleep. Mama did not say anything. And I could not sleep.

Grandmama walked into the kitchen, her slippers sliding on the floor. She sat her bible on the kitchen table, and sat down in a chair across from me.

“Are you going to go back to sleep?” she asked.

She sounded funny. I think she knew she was missing her teeth, or maybe she did not.

She had them yesterday. I’m sure she would’ve noticed!

Oh, my goodness, I thought. I just had to spit it out, as I could not hold it any longer!

“Grandmamma, where are your teeth?” I asked.

She smiled, showing only her pink gums. “They are in the jar in the bathroom. I know I need to put them in, but I will do it a little later.”

I could not believe that she was being so nonchalant about it. It was really a big deal!

All she could say is that they were in a jar?

I was full of questions then.

She talked some more, but I didn’t hear a word. I was in a daze. It just didn’t seem right. Did my Granddaddy know about this or was it a secret? How long has she been without teeth?

I came out of my daze long enough to ask the question that had so quickly consumed me. “Grandmama, why are your teeth not in your mouth? Why can you take them out?”

She answered in the same funny sounding voice. Embarrassingly she said, “Well, I did not take care of my teeth when I was a young girl. I had to get these. My gums are irritated so that is why they are not in.”

I looked at her. I noticed that she is embarrassed because she covers her mouth. “Oh…okay,” I said, letting out a sigh of relief.

In the words of my Grandmama, I know that it is not” becoming” to continue the conversation.

Grandmamma rose from the table and retrieved two white coffee cups with the Delta Airlines symbol on them and pours coffee into them. The light is shining through the window of the kitchen and it is time for our morning cups of coffee.

“Grandmama, I only want two spoons of sugar and a little cream,” I said.

She pushed the sugar dish my way. “I don’t know why you like such dark coffee.”

The day was getting back to normal. I could not wait until Granddaddy woke up up so that we could have breakfast.

That day, Grandmama taught me that there is always something you did not know before. The world is full of wonders. This was the only time I remember her surprising me with any inconsistency. Her house, tone, and attitude had always been the same.

She always spoke about the importance of “becoming” a young lady, celebrating life instead of grieving, asking questions and seeking answers.

The End

*HaPPy BiRThDay CHELE*

One of the Originals is celebrating a birthday today!!

***HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHELE***

Ya'll know I had to hook That Oldgirl Chele up with a LadyLee style birthday card...

And thanks to the LBeezy, I've FINALLY figured out how to send cookies through the mail! So I hooked Chele up with some oatmeal spiced apple cranberry walnut cookies and triple chocolate chip pecan cookies!!


Now, I also sent her a 26 page, 7200 word story. Don't worry, I ain't posting it here! (Ya'll know I'm longwinded, but that's TOO much right there, LOL!)

Shoot, Nikki, the Iniquitous One, read it, thoroughly critiqued it. We had a very spirited discussion over IM last night about what we both liked and didn't like about it... Ya'll know Nikki is like, the writing guru and all... I was glad to hear what she had to say. So I have a bit of work to do on it. So look out for me to work on that Nikki!!!

But, I DO have a story... One only Chele would understand... so, uh, you don't have to read it, as it is a epilogue of sorts to the story I sent her, and you will be scratching your head saying "What the heck is LadyLee talking about?"

Ya'll be alright... skip your tails down to the food!

As for now, a side story for Chele...

"The Mission"

LadyLee was on a mission.

She was on a mission to stand on the same stage where the legendary Chele sang, in a club deep in the backwoods of Alabama. The very same stage where Chele sang a perfect rendition of Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces”, blowing away the red neck crowd.

LadyLee wanted to stand on that stage.

Terry, Mr. Cheap Seats himself, was in the ATL on business that week, and offered to drive her down to the place, some three hours away. They made it there a little later than LadyLee cared for, around midnight, on a Saturday no less. So, it was no suprise that the place was packed to the hilt. They couldn’t even get into the parking lot.

“Is this the place?” Terry asked. He peered out the window, squinted hard at the dimly lit area.

“Yeah, Joe-Bob’s Hoe-Down.”

“You sure you wanna go in there?”

“Yeah, man! Chele sung up in this camp! They know her. She said they were cool, real cool peeps.”

“That's a huge confederate flag draped across the front of the building, Lee. You want me to go in there with you?”

“Na’wl, I can go by myself,” LadyLee said. She slid out of the car, grabbed the large paper bag she’d brought for the ride and slammed the door. “You just do as I said. You stay out here with the car running. Don’t even put it in park. Keep it in drive, hold your foot on the brake.”

Terry frowned. “I may just get out and smoke my cigar.”

“No, Terry! It’s your car, smoke in the car, Man.”

“But what if I need to go take a piss, LadyLee?”

“No Terry! You sit on these cheap car seats of yours and hold it. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Terry sighed. He gripped the steering wheel.

LadyLee clenched the bag in her hand and ran across the gravel parking lot, past the pickup trucks and motorcyles.

LadyLee walked into the lobby.

No one was there.

“Hello?” she said.

No one answered.

She saw a table there, and a metal box with a lock on it. But there was no one around.

The music was loud as hell. People were hooping and hollering something awful. The racket was coming from behind a black velvet curtain to the left of the entrance.

LadyLee pulled back the curtain, went inside. It was dark and everyone was staring at the stage, where a woman was singing just a bit too loud and a bit too hard. Glass crunched beneath herfeet. And if she wasn’t mistaken, the floor was sticky.

LadyLee shuddered. "This is too nasty," she said under her breath.

No one paid her any attention. The people were too busy dancing hard and waving their cowboy hats in the air. LadyLee made her way through the crowd, and jumped up on the stage.

The music ceased.

LadyLee waved at the crowd. “How ya’ll doing tonight?”

No one said a word.

“Who are you, gal?” someone in the crowd yelled.

“I’m LadyLee… the Original Oldgirl!”

“Who gives a damn, ya nigra?”

“You should,” LadyLee said.

“We don’t allow no coloreds up in here,” the woman on stage said. She was standing there, staring LadyLee down, like she was ready to fight. She smoothed down her thin wispy hair. “You better get on outta here.”

“You must be Betsy,” LadyLee said. “Chele told me about you.”

Betsy eyes widened. “You know Chele?”

“Yes I do.”

“How is she?"

"She's just fine," LadyLee said. She looked out at the crowd. "She told me to tell you all 'Howdy Do!'"

"Howdy-Do!" the crowd replied in unison.

"Betsy, Chele wanted me to bring this.” LadyLee pulled a big wavy black wig out of the bag, held it high in the air.

“It’s Betsy’s special wig!” someone in the crowd yelled.

“I gave that to her as a souvenir after she sang here on this very stage,” Betsy cried. “She didn’t have to give it back.”

“Well she told me to bring it back.”

Betsy held out her hand for the wig. LadyLee snatched it out of reach.

“No, Betsy. Let me hold the microphone.”

“What?"

"Gimme the mike!"

"You gonna sang a song?”

Ladylee's face scrunched up. “Hell no. I ain’t singing. My name ain’t Chele.”

“Well what you want the mike for?”

“Don’t worry about all that,” LadyLee said. “Just give it to me.”

Betsy reluctantly held out the microphone. LadyLee snatched it up.

The crowd was so quiet that LadyLee had to squint past the spotlight’s glare to make sure someone was out there. They were there, but staring at her a bit too hard.

“I just have one thing to say….

"What's that?" someone in the crowd yelled

LadyLee took a deep breath and screamed into the microphone:

"Happy Birthday Chele!!!"

Betsy gasped. "It's her birthday?"

"Sure is!"

The crowd hooped and hollered. Betsy jumped up and down. The band started playing music again. Betsy grabbed another microphone and sang Chele's favorite Patsy Cline song "I Fall to Pieces".

LadyLee snuck off stage, still gripping the microphone, wig and paper bag in her hands. No one noticed. They were caught up in their relvery. When she got near the velvet curtain that separated the lobby from the club, LadyLee hit the mike with her hand, causing a squeak so loud that the whole crowd turned her way.

"I'm outta here!" LadyLee yelled into the mike.

"Tell Chele we said hello! And give me my wig, gal!" Betsy yelled. "Don't forget to leave my wig!"

"NO!" LadyLee screamed.

"What?" Betsy said. She frowned hard.

"I said hayle no!" LadyLee said. She reached down, pulled something out of the paper bag. "I have one more thing to say, though."

"You better say it, leave my wig, and then get the hell outta here, gal" Betsy growled.

LadyLee took a deep breath, raised her hand in the Celie crooked two fanger point and hollered:

"Obama/Biden '08!!"

LadyLee hurled a stack of Obama Biden '08 church fans high in the air over the crowd.

Then she ran like hell, snatching the velvet curtain down as she went.

"Get that Nigra!!!!!" Betsy yelled.

There was a loud ruckus, tables and chairs falling over, glass breaking, a bunch of cursing and yelling. LadyLee grabbed the money box from the table in the lobby and ran out the front door. She was running so hard that she ran right into a row of motorcycles, knocking them all over.

"Terry!!!!!! Open the car door, open the car door, Man!!!" LadyLee yelled as she weaved her way through the gravel parking lot.

He pushed the door open. LadyLee dove in. Terry took off, tires screeching and smoking as they tore off down the road.

LadyLee sat up. Terry noticed the awful wig in her hand.

"What in the world is that, LadyLee?"

"Betsy's wig!"

"I'm not even going to ask," Terry said.

"Chele said it would get me in the club. Belong to some chick up in there name Betsy."

"And you didn't give it back!?"

"Hell no! Are you crazy!? Chele told me to bring it back, not to give it back. Betsy can't have it back. It's Chele's special role play wig, and she wants it back as soon as possible."

*Terry looks at LadyLee with raised eyebrows*

"Ya'll are some crazy females!" he said. "Crazy indeed!"

LOL!!!! Yeah, uh.... that should make you LAUGH right there, Chele!!

Really though.

So with that... Let's get our virtual eat-on...

It's Friday! That means we're having a fish fry.

"Uncle Cre, pull the witch kettle out and fry this birthday girl right here some fish!!!!"




Yeah, that's good fish right there. Fried outside in hot grease like that?

Shoot, that's GOOD fish.

Got some snow crabs for you too!!!

And since you likes the fine wines, Chele, We DO have plenty of Australian Barossa Grenache, i.e., Bee-yotch on Ice..
Bitch on ice - so nice, so nice...

(You know, I should've sent you a bottle Chele!)

Yeaaaaah!!!

T'ain't no party like an Oldgirl party because an Oldgirl Party, don't... stop!!!

Happy Birthday, Chele! Make it a good one!

(Uh, with that black wig... I know you will.)