Oh What a Night

All I can say is...

Oh What a Night.

Four simple words. But they are full of glee and joy. They leave me breathless.

Oh what a night!

This was the first time that I can remember not being nervous when giving a talk in front of  a bunch of people. And it was a packed house, standing room only.

I have always done great with the scientific talks. But I have never given a reading before.

But it went well. We signed a load of books beforehand. And they sold out. How cool is that?

And I don't even know what to say about the GREAT Tayari Jones.

How awesome is she? She is awesome to the nth degree. She never ceases to amaze me.

And I don't say that because she gave a great reading. She always does that.

But I say that because she beckoned me over to her parents house in SWATS on Sunday and we practiced for a couple of hours. She taught me in that time how to properly read a piece of fiction. And how it is much different from reading something technical, much of which I've been always accustomed to. I will never forget her taking time to help me get my diction and pitch just right. Her Mom and Dad even took time to listen to me read, and they gave me great pointers. I incorporated ALL of that advice, and I did a pretty good job.

I can look over the past decade of our acquaintance, and she is one of those people over that period of time that's made a lasting and positive impact on my life and well being. I can't say that about many people. And I can only hope that someday, someone in the world  will be able to say the same about me that I say about her. 

I am simply shocked at doing something new and so different at this time in my life.

I will never forget it.

Oh what a night.

I have 2 more readings this month.

But I know they will never be good as the first time. :)

A Random Act of Kindness

You’ve been caught.

And at the time, you wanted to burst out in laughter because this never happens.

You’ve never been caught.

But now you’re staring down the barrel of a big gun is pointed at the span of space between your eyebrows, just above the bridge of your nose. And you know if you make one false move, it will be the last move you ever make.

“Don’t you dare move,” the female voice behind the gun says. She cocks the gun and secures her grip. “If you move, you’re a dead man.”

And you believe her too because you can see the truth in her eyes, even in the sparse moonlight shining through the kitchen window.

You stand there dressed in black from head to toe, just mere steps away from the kitchen back door, with a 15” tube television held securely under your arm, wondering why you ever felt so sorry for this woman in the first place.

You first saw her yesterday in the electronics department of the local Wal-Mart staring at the big flat screen televisions, going on and on with the salesman, telling him that she would give anything to have one of those big screen TVs.

You walked past her. She was pretty and she smelled so good. You watched as she points a slender finger at the 46” Toshiba flat screen television hanging high on the wall, and you nodded in unison with the salesman when she announced for all to hear that it was the television of her dreams.

It is a nice choice indeed. You know because you’ve stolen two or three in the past. And you just so happen to have one in your garage. It is standing on its side in the far back corner, next to the deep freezer, loosely wrapped in the quilt your Grandmother gave to you as a child.

You listen as the woman gives the salesman her address for the credit card application. Your shoulders slump the same as hers when she is told that her application has been denied. You watch as she walks away, leaving her fondest dream behind.

As you repeat the woman’s address over and over in your mind, you get the bright idea to break into her house and trade out her television for the television in your garage. You would never think of doing this, but the last time you talked with your beloved grandmother she made you promise her one thing:

“You make sure you take the time to be kind to someone this week. A little kindness goes a long way.”

You’re pretty sure your idea wasn’t what Grandma had in mind, but a promise is a promise.

Just when you’re about to open your mouth to explain yourself to the lovely lady with the gun, a large dog comes around the corner at full speed and charges at the two of you. The gun is dropped and it fires, shooting her in the chest. She falls to the floor, dead at your feet.

At the same time, sirens whir and squeal. Police break down the door and find you holding the gun in your hand. The lovely lady is cradled in your arms.

And now you’re on trial for armed robbery and attempted murder.

You are glad that the woman is not dead. And at the same time you are wishing you never answered the phone that day your grandmother called, even as you hear the lovely lady sitting there in the gallery saying to someone "You should go with that Toshiba brand. It's a dream."

“How do you plead?” the judge asks.

“Guilty,” you reply solemnly.

You are telling the truth.

For you are guilty.

Guilty of an attempted random act of kindness.

I, John Smith

She threw it all away.

The ring I, John Smith, bought for her - she threw it away.

The ring I saved a whole year for-- She threw it away.

Who does that?

What kind of woman takes something so valuable and throws it away, like it's just another piece of trash?

I'll tell you what kind of woman...

The woman who left me, John Smith, for him...

Some guy she met at a biker bar.

"He's a badass," she said. "As a matter of fact, his nickname is Bad Ass. And he's nothing like you, John."

Mr. Bad Ass knew how to show her a good time, knew all the best bars and hangouts.

And I, John Smith, just worked ten, sometimes twelve hours a day.

I was boring, not an ounce of fun to be had.

Just boring John.

Even my name was boring, she'd said.

John Smith.

And now, here we sat in a hotel lobby, some ten years later, talking.

That guy, Mr. Bad Ass, was long gone, locked up for attempted murder and armed robbery.

And she waited for hours to get some time with me, just to let me know that she'd come to her senses, seeing how after four kids and far too much trouble that maybe, just maybe, I, John Smith, wasn't so bad after all.

And it didn't take much to see that. Afterall, she'd seen me, John Smith, on all the morning news shows.  She'd even watched me at the White House, walking casually through the rose garden chatting with the President. She had the same questions the President had. She, like he and everyone else, wanted to know how I did it all and what my secrets to success were.
And she saw me, just like the entire country that day, respond that the key to it all was letting go of those who didn't think you were good enough. And letting go of those who couldn't and wouldn't support your dreams.

And it meant having enough sense to know that anyone who throws it all away wasn't really meant for you in the first place.

And she wanted to tell me that that day that she'd heard every word I said, loud and clear.

She wanted to tell me that I was right.

I, John Smith, was the best thing that'd ever happened to her.

And in her quiet moments she was haunted by sad memories of how she threw it all away.

I sat quietly and listened to her every word, and I watched the tears fall like rain from her eyes.

At that moment, I knew that I, John Smith, was a perfect catch...

For once in my life, I was the one that got away.

And that right there?

That very realization?

It made my day.



....from Women of Color Writing Group, April 2012,

Writing Prompt: . Write a story that begins with "She threw it all away". (7 minute time limti)

Barely Breathing (The Peephole)

I'm looking through the peephole, and what do I see?

I see him pacing back and forth.
I see him stopping in front of the peephole and peering closer.
I see his face.
His face is warped
His brow is furrowed.
He is pissed.

I stand there with my arms folded tightly across my chest
I'm barely breathing, as still as a statue.
You see, I don't want him to see me, or to even know that I'm there.

I hold my breath and watch as he cups his hands to the peephole.
He moves closer and places his face to his hands, as if that will help him see inside.

He's not getting in tonight.

And I will stand here all night if I must
Watching, waiting, and barely breathing.

Yes, I will hold my breath and watch.
It is better to stand here watching and waiting,
And peering through the peephole

Than to face another threat,
Another accusation,
Another beating.

Tonight the peephole is my friend.
It is my third eye, allowing me to watch
And hope that the man on the other side,
The man who claims to love me
Will eventually go away...

...Go far far away.



From Women of Color Writing Workshop, September 2010...
5 minute writing prompt - You're through through a peephole... What do you see?w

I Remember When...

I remember when the power went off.  

I was only 9 years old.  I was sitting Indian Style on the big fluffy rug that sat askew in front of the TV set.  It was a Tuesday night, and a new episode of the Jeffersons was on.  I was laughing hard.  The squeak of Grandma's chair made a rhythmic noise as she rocked to and fro. She wasn't interested in the Jeffersons. She was more interested in not messing up the sweater she was crocheting.

Then the power went off.  

It was as if God flipped a light switch, and the whole world was turned off.

I knew things were not good when Grandma's chair stopped squeaking. And there was no sound accept the sound of my shallow breathing.

"Looks like the power done gone out, Lil' Soldier, she said, in her hard lisp.

Even though my first name was Larry, Grandma called me by my last name, with the "lil" at the beginning.  My father was one of those black power people and had changed his last name to Soldier.  So I was Little Soldier, and he was Big Soldier.

"That don't happen much here in Atlanta," she said.  

She went on to say something else but stopped mid sentence.

It was then that we both smelled smoke...


From Women of Color Writing Workshop, early August.

Time = 7 minutes. 

Prompts:  Start your story with:  I remember when

Mention the following:

Age between 2 and 88.
Name of a city.
First name starting with a G.
Last name starting with a S.
Prominent physical feature
Perk or mannerism

I forgot to work on the prominent physical feature portion. I was just trying to finish.  I cheated a little with the names. I used Grandma, and Soldier. I didn't have time to think about some really good names. 

We discussed that story for a moment. There are some interesting questions. What's up with the kid's father and the black panther party....

And what's up with the smoke?

I'll let you decide. 

Caution

I was stopped there.
Right there at that busy busy intersection.
Right there at the corner of Peachtree and Lake Avenue.

Right there at the triangular red and white yield sign.
Leaning hard on my horn, 

Yelling for the car in front of me to go...

Just go already!
Because I myself had somewhere to go.

Hair and nail appointments wait for no one, 

I had to get there soon.

And then I saw why we were all stopped.
There was a man walking across the busy street
A man walking slowly in the crosswalk, back bent, his wispy red hair blowing in the wind, his blue overalls in need of a good washing.
A makeshift sign hung around his neck, and it read "Caution: I have Crohns disease".
He looked to be coughing, but he was actually laughing.
And looking at me

Laughing at me
As if to say
"Melanie Thomas, you are blessed that you can move so fast and you have somewhere to be."
And he was laughing at me because he could see into my heart

And he could plainly see that I was taking my life for granted.

From August 3, 2012 Women of Color Writing Workshop. 7 minute timed prompt.

Writing prompts: traffic sign, blue, Crohns disease, laughing, Melanie Thomas

(Don't forget! This is 7th Bloggaversary Week! Comment to win that top prize - $77 gift card! See post for details)

Silly Daisy

I will never forget the year I met her.

March 2008.

No, April 2008 to be exact.  Although I don't quite remember the exact day. But I remember the month. It was the near the beginning of spring, very hot, which had us all thinking that it was going to be a smoldering summer.

I was riding the subway in New York, the orange M line to be exact, making my way up to a meeting in Manhattan on 14th street.  I was to pitch some products from our new line of nifty gadgets, and it would make us a fortune if only we could get the proper investors.

At the moment, I didn't need a fortune.  I only needed enough to buy a decent suit.  The tweed three piece suit that I wore was tight on me. It was ten years old and well past its prime.

And that's when I saw her, a lady in lavender, coming towards me, a bright smile lighting her face, her head crowned in a garland of flowers and lace.

She walked up to me, pulled a flower from her hair and stuck it the lapel of my suit jacket.

"A flower from Megan," she said, her voice light as silk.  "A flower for good luck."

I looked down at the slightly wilted flower, then back up at her. I pulled it from my lapel and handed it back to her. "No thank you."

"Oh no," she said. "No, you keep it. It is free of charge, for good luck."

I stared down at the flower in my hand.

"For luck," she repeated.  "For good luck."

"I need some luck," someone shouted from the seat behind me. "If he don't want it, I could use it."

We both looked behind us. The request had come from a disheveled man in bad need of a bath, some clean clothes, and a haircut.

"Oh," the woman, this Megan, said, her smile even wider. "There's enough for all to go around."

She handed the disheveled man a flower.  He stuck it in his matted hair and walked away grinning hard.

I smiled too, as I stuck the flower, the wilted daisy, in my lapel. I quickly made a mental note to throw it away before my presentation.

The woman continued down the aisle of the train, passing out silly daisies, imploring people to take them for luck.

I made it on time to my presentation and gave a spirited talk. The investors snickered continuously during my talk.  I thought it was because of how great my ideas were, but when I opened the floor for questions, one said...

"Why on earth are you wearing a silly daisy?"

My heart jumped. I'd forgotten to remove the flower from my lapel.

I peered down at the daisy. It was bigger now, petals strong and supple.

And now some four years later in 2012...

I smile myself at that very question.

Silly Daisy Gadgets were born on the day.

There's one or two in every household.

I wish I could find the lovely Megan properly thank her for the luck she brought me that day.

On a New York City subway.

From Women of Color Writing Workshop, May 18, 2012. 


10 minute Writing prompt: use the following 4 subjects in a story: 


Where: New York City Subway
When: April 2008
Who: Megan
Color: Lavender

"Blend"

I had the worst blender in the entire world, bought in Atlanta at the local Big Lots next to Wendy's for $9.99,on sale.



I used it every morning because I was determined to get a little healthier. I regretted buying it once I used it because it sounded like I'd put in a sack of nails, even though I'd added ice, and a few bananas and strawberries.

The sound was so loud that the neighbor next door would bang on the door and shout

"Pamela, turn that thing off. It's too loud!"

"Not as loud as those ugly neon purple shorts you wear every day," I muttered under my breath, even though I could shout it to the rafters from where I stood, and he would never hear me.

I would never say it loud enough for him to hear and comprehend...

Because how do I say such a thing to a man who walks around dressed liked that, and stands on the street corner, crying and muttering to himself:

"The world! The whole world! It's just too loud!!"

And no one pays him any attention. The cries and wails blend in with the honks and stereo bass of the passing cars.

The thing is, I don't say anything.

I don't say a word.

I just let my blender go a few seconds longer, and I try to be content with my smoothie that's thick with bits of fruit and chunks of ice that could have used a little more time in that blender.

And early the next morning, I'll blend.



I will simply blend again.

From March 9, 2012 Women of Color Workshop. Writing prompt: use the following four items in a story. (7 minute time limit)

1. blender
2. Wendy's
3. Pamela
4. Neon purple shorts

My Day in Court, Part II

Click here for My Day in Court, Part I

Chele was happy the court ordeal was over.

And she ran out of that courthouse like it was on fire.

She had to, because she kept looking over her shoulder, imagining the baliff coming fast after her, hollering,“Stop. The judge changed his mind. He made a mistake. Come back to court.”

Not on your life, buddy. Her paperwork, her signed proof of ticket dismissal, was in her left hand.
And that copy of Auto Weekly magazine was in her left.

She found her car in the parking lot a block from the courthouse, and hurriedly got inside. She put her key in the ignition, then froze where she sat.

Did she really see that old woman in the courtroom, or was it just her imagination?

She didn’t know.

But she could see the woman, the twinkle in her eyes, the bend of her back with age. She remembered feeling the creak of the as the woman sat down next to her. Chele remembered the high copper shine of the pennies in the penny loafers on the old woman’s feet. She remembered the feeling of the woman’s thigh flush against her own. That’s just how close the old woman had sat to next to her.

Did she imagine it all?

Hard raps on her car window startled her. It was the parking attendent.

“Ma’am,” he said. “If you hurry out of here before six, you can still pay the daytime rate. Otherwise your parking fee will be 10 dollars.”

Chele cranked her car. She looked at the digital time display on the console. It was five forty-five.

She paid the attendant and left, still looking over her shoulder, hoping the baliff didn’t come out hollering for her to get back in the court so she could pay her fine.

And still wondering if the old woman, if any woman, had even sat next down to her.

Chele shook her head in an effort to clear her thoughts. “I’m going to go home, get changed, and go running. That’s what I’m going to do. Nothing like a good run to calm my nerves.”

Chele got home in thirty minutes. That was good, considering the state of downtown traffic in the DMV. It’s amazing how smoothly traffic flows when there are no accidents, or better yet, when there are no drivers slowing down to look at accidents.

She thought she would be at the courthouse for only half a day, as she figured it should take no longer that a few hours to pay the ticket, or negotiate some type of payment plan for the ticket. She’d plan to come home, have a late lunch and go for a run.

And there was still a little time for a run, even though it was late. She liked running at dusk, just before the streetlights came on. And there was time to get that in. She couldn’t run as long as she like, though, but something was better than nothing.

Chele changed into her running gear and grabbed a couple of bottles of water from the fridge. She grabbed her keys from the table, but stopped when she saw the copy of Auto Weekly laying there.

She really needed to return it. And now was just a good of time as any.

A quick search on google maps showed that Arcadia Drive was in the nearby Arcadia Springs subdivision. It was the newest subdivision in the area. It contained McMansions, and Chele remembered the protests against such housing development in the area. As usual, big money won out.

Common sense soon took over. People stopped protesting once the area attracted newer and better stores for shopping.

Chele herself was in love with the new Target store.

She decided not to print out directions, and upon driving around the Arcadia Springs subdivision, she immediately regretted not doing so. Every roadway was named Arcadia: Arcadia Lane, Arcadia Way, Arcadia Avenue, Arcadia Circle, Arcadia Street, Arcadia Way.

Arcadia, Arcadia, Arcadia!

Everything accept Arcadia Drive.

Chele hit the steering wheel with her fist. “I give up. Can’t say I didn’t try. And that’s all I can do.”

Just as she was resigned to giving up looking for the correct street, there it was: Arcadia Drive.

She made a quick left turn onto the street and slowed her car in an effort to find street address 123.

“114, 116. . . all even numbers.” She turned her attention to the other side of the street. “119, 121. . . there’s 123.”

She slowed her car to a stop in front of the mailbox.

The two story brick house was well kept and quiet. Several ferns hung from the porch rafters, and wind chimes rang softly with the breeze. A black Mercedes sat at the top of driveway, and a blue tarp covered car was further down the driveway.

And flowers similar to the one the old woman wore in her hat lined the front of the house, interspersed betweened perfectly trimmed bushes.

“I am really tripping,” Chele muttered as she stared at the flowers. She grabbed the magazine and got out of the car. She was just about to place it in the already open mailbox, which already contained mail, when the front door of the house opened.

“Hey, who’s the lovely young lady around with my mailbox? Are you stealing my mail or making a delivery?”

Chele looked up at the sound of the voice.

The delicious vision of a man walking towards her made her knees weak.

“I’m Ralph Jones,” he said, his baritone cutting through the silence of the afternoon. “And you are?”



Afterword.

*silence*

Does Chele need me to put in another call to the IT department?

LOL

Well, well, well...

Go Chele.

*lee jumps up on cubicle desk*

I said "GO CHELE!"

Stop standing there like a punk, and tell that dude Ralph Jones what your name is!

"My name is Chele... shawty."

(I think that would cause dude to turn around and go right back in the house. )

Get your MACK on, Chele! Get it, girl!

LOL.

Interesting.

I am enjoying writing this little story. All from silly writing prompts. But it seems to be going well. I absolutely love flash and short fiction. I have about 5 novels in my head right now, but I can't say I like writing long form stuff too much. But this short and quick fiction? Loved-ed it!

Stay tuned for part III sometime next week :)

Oil. . . For Sale

No one knew what to make of the woman who’d just walked into the cafeteria during the early lunch service at work this past Friday.

As a matter of fact, a hush settled over the place.

We were all probably in awe at seeing a woman so tall. She was well over six feet, closer to seven feet. She sauntered in like she owned the place, like she’d never been treated as the oddity she appeared to be.

She flipped her hair over her shoulder, and addressed the lunch crowd.

“Excuse me,” she said, in a voice delicate as a flower.

No one said a thing. The chatter had already been a bit boring, with Tom standing up in the front of the cafeteria, bragging about his great golf games. The sound of his bouncing golf balls were still pinging in our ears. This woman quieted even chatty Tom.

“I’m selling tea tree oil. Special tea tree oil for nails.” She held up several small gold packets. “I have samples for a dollar if you like. And I have full bottles here for ten dollars. I take cash, credit cards and checks.”

The guys were loving this, a big tall beautiful woman appearing out of nowhere. I, being a woman, was more interested in where she got her weave done. It flowed just right, which meant it was human hair. And she had nice highlights.

“I’ll take a bottle,” Tom said. He gave her his credit card. “Matter of fact, I’ll take two.”

Chairs scooted back hard and fast from the cafeteria tables. The men lined up to purchase full bottles of tea tree oil.

I wasn’t buying it. Tea tree oil for nails? Never heard of it.”

When lunch was over, she left. But she left her purse behind.

“Too late to run after her,” I said.

“Look in there, look in her wallet,” Tom said. “Maybe you can get her name and info.”

I opened the purse. All I saw was a kit kat bar, and several IDs, each for the same person.

Funny, when she made her speech, she didn’t give her name.

It could be any of the names printed on the IDs: Halle Berry, Janet Jackson, Michelle Obama, Lauryn Hill, Condoleeza Rice...

I smiled. And these fools gave her there credit card numbers.

“Well,” Tom said, as he bounced his golf balls on the floor. “What’s her name?”

"Sally.” I said.

“Her name is Sally. And I will call her when I get back to my desk.”



From Women of Color Writing Workshop, January 7, 2011. Writing Prompt: Pull a card randomly from a stack of cards and use the words or phrases on the card in a story (10 minute exercise). My words were the following:

1. Tea tree oil for nails.
2. Golf balls
3. weave with nice highlights
4. purse containing several IDs.
5. a kit kat bar.

Fancy That, (The Prologue): "1972"

Okay Party people... I've been asked over email about the prologue to Fancy That and I decided to post it up. (I spoke of my woes concerning it in my post "Them Blues Part II" I'm not going to use it as a prologue, but I'm going to absorb in the story somewhere.

I posted 4 character sketches a couple of years ago...2 of the people are in this story.

Fancy That: Paulette Reese
Fancy That: Arthur Reese

I have 10 chapters written altogether. I haven't worked on it lately, as I put it through my writing class and I have to spend a good deal of time editing it before I move on. But it is a story that stays on my mind, and I plan to work on it next year.

So here's that infamous prologue, a slightly cleaned up version using some of the class's input.


1972

No one could remember who owned or even lived in the old dilapidated house tucked away in the woods at the far end of Pine Street. It was as if the house was just standing there, vacant as the eyes of a drug addict staring openly at whoever cared to drive by.

The centuries old house was a creaky body, racked with the pains of old age, worn down worst than someone with years of arthritis and liver spots and the like.

But it breathed, its lungs dexterous and strong as the day it was built. It was alive and well, even if it looked like it would fall apart at any given moment.

Its mind was sharp, chocked full of memories from days of old: The memory of fires crackling in the stone fireplace, offering the only protection against some of the coldest winters ever. The laughter and crying of a newborn child, hungry for its mothers milk, giggly from a loving poke from its father’s finger.

It recollected all things family: birthdays, fights, and funerals too numerous to record.

If the walls could talk, they would whisper of their memories of the love shared between a young Paulette Charlita Childs and her soul mate.

Paulette lay naked on her back in what may have been once the Master bedroom of the house one sunny Monday morning in 1972, with only a old linen sheet draped loosely across her body. She stared up at the ceiling, which was beginning to dip in the middle. Ugly brown water stains left from rain leaking through a roof far past any hope of repair stared back at her. Even though she lay on mounds of thick billowy blankets, she could still feel the buckling wood boards beneath her body and the round heads of the rusty nails poking her back.

That discomfort didn’t matter, for Paulette was caught up in the soulful croons of Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway. The singers were pondering, mourning even, over their love for each other, and more importantly where that love had gone.

The sad song didn’t matter much to Paulette either, because the woman she loved was right there next to her.

They lay there in each others arms, caught up in the afterglow of their lovemaking, watching the gray smoke unfurl from a joint bursting at the seams with forbidden herbs free of irksome seeds and worrisome sticks.

“It doesn’t get any better than this,” Paulette breathed, her words rushing after the smoke that eased from her lips. She turned over and flicked ashes into an ashtray behind them just within arms reach. “There’s nothing in the world that compares to being with you, Fancy.”

“It could be this way all the time,” Fancy said. Her voice was quiet and shaky. “You know that.”

Paulette sighed and took another long draw on the joint. “You keep saying that.”

Fancy raised up on her elbows. “And I’ll keep saying it until it gets through your head. You are in charge of your life, Paulette, not that damn Arthur.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Well, it’s true. He stays in the way.”

Paulette waved away the smoke she’d just exhaled. “No, I’m not talking about that. Don’t call me Paulette. You know how much I hate it when you call me Paulette. I’m Lita. I’m your Lita.”

Fancy always called her Lita when they were alone together. It was her pet name for her, and what she called her in the diaries they shared over the years.

“Lita, I’m just tired of all this hiding. It’s been three whole months since the last time we were together. I miss you.”

“Well Fancy, if you wouldn’t have moved way down to Valdosta―”

Fancy sat up. “Stop blaming me for that. If Arthur hadn’t run my name in the ground and ran me out of town, then we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

Paulette took another quick draw on the joint, then sat it on the edge of the ashtray. “Calm down, baby,” Paulette cooed. She wrapped a couple of strands of Fancy’s long curly locks around her finger. She leaned over and kissed her on the arm.

“I just hate him, that’s all. Hate that you’re married to him and he’s with you every night. Hate that he keeps us apart.”

“I hate him too, Fancy. God knows I do. But we’re together now, right here, you and me. And that’s all that matters.”

Fancy pulled away from Paulette. “No, that’s not all that matters.”

Paulette picked up the joint from the ashtray. She took a drag so deep that the soft insides of her cheeks touched. She exhaled the opaque smoke into Fancy’s face. “You always get the best grass, Fancy.”

“Well fancy that. She likes the grass,” Fancy said.

Paulette chuckled.

Fancy sucked her teeth. The bacon from the bacon and egg sandwiches they'd had earlier was stuck in her teeth. “You’re changing the subject, like you always do when it comes to Arthur.”

“Don’t wanna think about Arthur, right now. Not while I’m good and high. I just wanna think about you.”

Fancy smiled and lay back down on the rumpled blankets. Paulette knew just the right words to smother Fancy’s volatile temper. She held the joint up to Fancy’s lips and watched as she inhaled.

They lay there, taking turns smoking. The music had stopped. The wind whistling through the trees provided a soothing lullaby.

“Lita,” Fancy finally said.

Paulette said nothing.

Fancy took a deep breath. “I’ve saved up some money over the past year. Close to five hundred dollars. It’s enough, enough for me to move to Atlanta. I have an interview at Southern Bell tomorrow for a phone operator job paying a hundred dollars a week.” The words rushed from her mouth like the wind rushed through the trees.

This time, Paulette sat up, dropping the joint in the process, which had now dwindled down to a mere roach. It fell between them. Paulette picked it up and patted the sheet to make sure it wasn’t burning them.

“That’s why I bring the same old sheets. You always dropping the joints.”

“No,you can't do that,” Paulette said. She picked up a new joint from a baggie next to the two of them, and lit it with a match. “You sound crazy. How will we see each other, with you all the way up in Atlanta and me down here?”

“Lita, I want you to come with me.”

Paulette coughed hard, the smoke burning her throat and nose. “What?”

Fancy snatched the joint from Paulette’s fingers. “I said, come with me. It’s summer right now. That gives you plenty of time to find a teaching job up in Atlanta before the new school year starts. I have that money saved, and that’s enough to get us a nice one bedroom apartment in West Atlanta. We could be together, buy a nice house, be a family, and―”

“I can’t just up and leave like that. And give me back my joint.”

Fancy’s hopeful eyes clouded with anger. “No. You smoke too damn much. I’m trying to talk to you, and all you want to do is get high.”

“You blowing my high, Fancy.”

“You could leave if you wanted to,” Fancy said.

Paulette looked away from Fancy towards the bedroom’s broken door, barely hanging on by rusty hinges. This room was the nicest room in the house. Fancy had found it when they were teenagers. Everyone always said it was a haunted house, but Fancy was bold enough to sneak up in there and check it out. She cleaned this room and made it a private haven for the two of them. And now, with Fancy talking such foolishness about Atlanta, their private cove would become obsolete.

“You don’t want to leave, Lita.” Fancy grasped Paulette’s chin and turned her face to her own. “Always worried about what people say. Damn what they say.”

“Come on. I don’t want to fight about this.”

“It’s 1972, Lita. Times are changing. I’m twenty-three, and you’re twenty-four. We can go to Atlanta. We don’t have to stay down here all our lives. We can leave and be free.”

“Free.” Paulette snorted. “You always talking about being free. Those folks up in Atlanta will look at us like we’re crazy if we walk down the street kissing and holding hands.”

“Good ol’ Paulette Childs.” Fancy laughed. “Oh, sorry, it’s Paulette Reese, now, ain’t it”?

“It’s Lita to you.”

“So scared somebody’s going to see you’re not perfect.”

Paulette lay back on the pillow. “I’m not perfect. Just cautious.”

“Well being up in Atlanta will be better than you being here in ass backwards Fitzgerald and me being down in Valdosta.”

“That didn’t have to happen. You could’ve stayed quiet about us, and stayed right here in Fitzgerald.”

“No.” Fancy shook her head defiantly. “You were worth it. Standing up for you, no, standing up for us and what we share was worth it.”

Fancy reached for her shirt and hastily pulled it down over her head. She thrust her arms through the sleeve openings. “I’m beginning to feel like I’m not worth as much to you as you are to me.”

“You’re talking crazy. You always turn what little time we have together into a thing of frustration.”

Fancy stopped fighting with her shirt. She blinked rapidly. “I love you. And Lita, I don’t know, you just don’t seem to get that.”

Paulette rubbed Fancy’s arm, then gently brushed away the tears that fell down her cheeks. “I love you, too, Fancy. You know I do.”

If I had a gun,” Fancy began. She reached for her crumpled cut-off jeans and balled them up tightly with her hands. “If I had a gun, I would march right out to that factory and blow what little brains Arthur has right out the side of his peanut head.”

“Calm down. Don’t think like that. I love you, not Arthur.”

“Then prove it to me. Leave Arthur. Leave this place. Leave everything and come with me. I have the money.”

“Fancy―”

“Paulette, I swear, you’re so full of excuses. It’s just one excuse after another.”
“I’m just being realistic, that’s all.”

Fancy jumped up from the floor and snatched on her cut-off jeans. “No, you’re just being a goddamn coward.”

Paulette reached out and gently caressed Fancy’s bare ankle. Fancy didn’t move, only stared down at her. Fancy was a hothead, but Paulette knew that one touch in the right places calmed her down.

Fancy lay back down next to Paulette. As mad as she was, she too didn’t want their time together to end so quickly. They’d been there since early that morning, and planned to stay there all day.

They made love once again, and fell asleep in each others arms.

They were awaken by the patter of raindrops on the house’s rooftop.

“Oh God, I left the top down on my bug,” Fancy yelled. She’d just bought the VW bug and had to dry it out once before after a rainstorm. She wasn’t interested in dealing with the smell of rain soaked seats ever again.

She quickly put her clothes back on, slipped on her wooden clogs and ran out the house.

“Be careful,” Paulette warned. “Don’t forget to walk along the wall. There are new weak spots in this floor.”

“I know, I know,” Fancy yelled from the hallway.

Paulette heard the car door of Fancy’s car open and close, and the hard creak of the vinyl top being raised. She gathered the linen sheet around her body as she sat up to feel around for her own clothes and shoes. She didn’t plan on putting them on, but was completely unnerved by Fancy’s angry search for her own. She at least wanted to have them put to the side, out of the mess of sheets and blankets.

Suddenly Paulette heard footsteps, fast and anxious, coming up the stairs.

“Paulette,” a hard breathing Fancy yelled as she ran into the room. “Get up, we gotta get out of here.”

Paulette sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“Somebody’s outside. I think they saw me.” She picked up the flashlight they used earlier when they came in. “Get your clothes on and let’s go.”

“Who’s out there?”

“Don’t worry about that. Let’s go.”

As fast as Fancy said that, she was on her way out the door, transistor radio and picnic basket clutched in her arms, running down the hall. Paulette was left sitting there, struggling to get her tube top over her shoulders.

Then that’s when Paulette heard a sound she would never forget: the slow sound of splintering wood,the sound of the floor giving way. It was followed by a muffled scream and a loud crash.

“Fancy?” Paulette jumped up from the floor. She was so high that she found it hard to keep her balance. She wrapped the sheet around herself and walked towards the bedroom door.

Paulette squinted and saw a big hole in the floor of the hallway. She gasped as she saw Fancy’s fingers hanging on to the edge of the hole, the top of her hair just visible behind her hands.

“Fancy!” Paulette screamed. She dove for the hole in the floor, completely losing the sheet draped around her body. Paulette grabbed Fancy’s forearms, as best she could with her own hands. It didn’t help that Fancy’s arms were slick from the rain.

“Don’t let me fall,” Fancy whimpered.

The wood began to give beneath Paulette. “I won’t let you fall. Try to pull up.”

“I can’t.” Fancy let go, but Paulette caught her hands in her own. They stared into each others eyes.

“Hold on. Just hold on. I won’t let you go.”

All of a sudden, Paulette was snatched back. Fancy’s hands slipped from hers.

“Fancy! No!” Paulette screamed again at the top her lungs.

There was a loud crash. Paulette was still being drawn backwards. She saw a dark shadow flutter against the wall, and whoever was pulling her away suddenly flipped her over. She couldn’t tell who it was.

Just as she was about to speak, she was punched in the face.

Her world, Paulette’s world, went black as night, as she lost conscience that early summer morning in the vacant house on Pine street.

If the walls could weep, they would weep for a love snatched away.

A love broken too soon.