with style and grace.
Not so much here but you have to admire a man who could care less what he looked like at a Trump inauguration.
Daily word prompt: Collaboration
Collaboration
1
Category Archives: Daily Prompt
Fighting for rights
A man, close to the front, pumped his fist. “My wife don’t have time for more learning. We got six kids needing supper on the table.”
A melee of querulous male voices erupted from the crowd.
“Why do women prostitute themselves to the abnormal passion of man?” Miss Fisher continued. “Because they are poverty-stricken, destitute above temptation and driven by necessity. They sell themselves, in marriage or out, for bread and shelter, for the necessities of life. How can we blame them? They have no other recourse but to live in a society that dictates what they, we, can and cannot do. To solve this problem, we demand that women be allowed to exercise their inherent, personal, citizen’s right to be a voice in the government, municipal, state, and national. Then, women will have the power to protect themselves.”
“We men protect our women just fine,” a voice shouted. Other men shouted their agreement.
Mayor Hicks stepped to the podium, his lips pursed. “Enough of your heckling. Save your disagreements for editorials in the newspapers. She has a right to free speech.”
“So do we,” someone boomed back.
The mayor banged a fist on the podium. “These women are invited guests. By God, we will show them our southern Hospitality.”
The raw egg came from nowhere. It narrowly missed the Mayor’s head before landing on the bandstand floor. He squinted, searching the crowd.
Poor Mrs. Fenwick held a shaky hand over her mouth.
Miss Fisher reached below the dais and pulled out a speaking trumpet. “The true relation of the sexes can never be attained until women are free and equal with man,” she continued, her determination thundering above the chaos.
The second egg hit the podium dead center.
Excerpt from The Last Bordello
Firing Squad
The officer turned to Sadie. “Miss, get up now. We need to ask you some questions. City Hall is only a short walk.”
Sadie gripped the edge of the table as if nailed there. “But I didn’t do anything wrong. I found this the night of the meeting. Meta?” Her eyes begged for help.
What could I do besides sit with my mouth open? I forced myself to stand and offered Sadie my hand. “It will be all right. I’m sure it won’t take long to answer their questions. You’ll be home before you know it.” With afterthought, I turned to the officer. “Sir, doesn’t Sheriff Tobin have jurisdiction over this county?” An elected official always had command over a hired police force.
Ignoring me, the officer grimaced at Sadie, his fingers resting atop his cudgel. “What’s your name, Miss?”
Sadie creaked out of her chair like a woman twice her age. “Miss Sadie Dubois,” she said, her voice low.
“And where do you live, Miss Dubois?”
Again, Sadie stared at me for support.
“Sir, we live at the corner of Durango and San Saba,” I said, not giving away the proprietor or Sadie’s profession.
He tilted his head upward as if picturing the city streets. A slight grin crept up one side of his mouth. “I’d say it’s time for us to take a walk.”
I followed behind a slumping Sadie. Outside, the fresh air did nothing to help my breathing. The officer held fast to Sadie’s elbow and pulled her toward the courthouse. The Temperance women, glued to Sadie’s heels, followed behind like a firing squad taking a prisoner to her Final destination.
Excerpt from The Last Bordello
Separate but (not treated) Equal
After Isaac puts the Pontiac in neutral and maneuvers it out on the driveway, he asks me to hand him a screwdriver. He tightens some do-ma-hickey then replaces the battery with the one he picked up at the local auto part’s store.
“You sure know a lot about a lot of things, Isaac Ford,” I tell him. “And don’t dare say anything stupid like, ‘so you think I’m smarter than the average colored boy.’”
“I read a lot. And my mama teaches at my school. The Academy for Black Youth in case you’re wondering.”
“We don’t have any Negros in my school. Not because they can’t come but because most of them live across town.”
“Separate but Equal,” he says, shaking his head.
I think of my summer reading assignment — A Separate Peace.
“Thing is, Chicken Coop. I want to make something of myself. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out how. I can’t play music, I don’t want to be a preacher—”
“Then do something else. Be a mechanic. Be a teacher. Be whatever you want.”
“Okay. I’ll be a surgeon. After they let me in a university because of my a-Maze-ing chemistry and biology grades, I graduate. Then, I look for a job that will hire a colored surgeon. And, if I’m lucky enough to land that job, white folks will say, ‘I don’t want some colored boy operating on me.’ Then, I’m back where I started. Without a job.”
“You’re so cynical, Isaac.”
“Cynical?” He points a finger at my chest. “You know nothing. Nothing! What do I have to be cheery-faced about? Huh? That I can fix a goddam car? Tell Olvie it’s ready. She can drive it in the garage her own damn self. I’m going home.”
From my WIP about forging friendships during the Civil Rights Movement (1963)
Parenthood
Definition:
noun
a journey through a Maze of obstacles; a state of jumping over hurdles to protect one’s child; a wonderful and amazing adventure!
CD-W
A bullet past an ear
Cono and his grandfather, Ike
Further up on the right is another house. It looks kinda like an old Wayne Dennis house, falling down on one side. Car parts litter the front yard.
“Who lives there?” I say.
“Oh, some damn white man,” says Ike.
“Still like that Cherokee part ’a ye, huh Ike?”
“Damn straight.”
We get to the bar and meet Andres, Ike’s friend. “This here’s my grandson, Cono,” Ike says.
“Pleasure,” I say, shaking his hand.
The three of us sit down at a table for four and a short little old lady in a Pink uniform comes over to take our order.
“Bring us three Pearl beers,” says Ike.
“No beer fer me,” I say.
“Still not a drinker, Cono?”
“Still not,” I say.
“Sody Pop then?”
I turn to the waitress and say, “Ye got Nehi Grape?”
She nods and says, “Be right back.”
For eleven o’clock in the morning the place is busy. The early lunch crowd has come in. Andres starts to talk while Ike listens. And I’ll be damned, Ike’s twirling his index finger around his thumb. They say an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. This is one habit Dad’s pulled down from his father, but as far as I can see, and unfortunately, the only one.
Ike starts to talk but Andres keeps saying, “What are you saying? I can’t hear.”
Finally, after gulping down his beer, Andres says, “Hell, let’s go someplace quiet where we can talk.” I pull out my wallet to pay but Ike says, “Put that away, Cono. You need ta save yer money.” I do as I’m told, grateful of the man beside me who appreciates my hard work.
Ike and me gulp down our drinks and head down the street to a little dive of a bar, a place that doesn’t sell food.
“This is better,” says Andres. We all sit down at a table and order another round from the bartender, the only person working here.
In the middle of cow talk, a man with a black mustache that matches the color of his eyes opens the door, pulls out a pistol, and shoots a bullet right past Ike’s ears and into the mirror behind the bar. The bartender pulls out his shotgun, aims it at the shooter and says, “Jose, you drop that gun right now. This ain’t no way to settle a bar tab.” The man backs down and yells something I don’t understand, and then he leaves.
As cool as a cucumber, Ike clicks the left side of his cheek, turns to Andres and says, “Ye got another quiet place ye wanna go?”
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper
Retaliation of the wrong kind?
Isaac grabs Olvie’s arm as she reaches the doorknob. “Olvie, don’t you do it. I don’t need protection just because a man’s called me names. I’m used to it. And you marching over there and giving him a tongue lashing will only make things worse.”
“He’s right, Olvie,” I say.
Then I realize. Isaac’s endured this kind of treatment his whole life. So have his friends and family and so many others. I also realize that the bigoted man across the street is using Isaac to calm his own domestic storm, to diffuse the quarrel by placing greater importance on what he doesn’t know as his personal fear and stupidity.
We didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. And now, Deputy Garvey has driven off.
Something else occurs to me. “Olvie? You used to harass Isaac’s uncle every morning.”
“What? You think I’m no better than Roberts of Asshole? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
It’s a thought worthy of her Pursuing. “No. I’m just wondering why you stopped messing with him.”
Olvie shrugs. “Guess having his nephew work for me is a good enough retaliation.”
“Well, that makes me feel peachy,” say Isaac.
“Oh, Wisenheimer, don’t be so sensitive. It has nothing to do with you. You, I happen to like. Your uncle and me have had a beef a long while now.”
“Why? What did he do that was so bad?” Isaac asks.
Although Olvie turns to the side, I see the tears puddle in the corner of her left eye.
“That,” she says so quietly I can barely hear her, “is a long story. It’s also my story.”
Work in Progress – a novel about diverse friendships in 1963.
Daily prompt: Pursue
Pursing God
Moved to a room full of cots, women lay moaning, talking to themselves, soiling their sheets. Some chained to their beds, others forced into straight jackets before bedtime. Most stared up at the flaking, gray ceiling.
Everything existed in a different time and place. I had one thing in common with those women. We all stunk of fear and hatred, the odor I couldn’t place when I first arrived.
I wondered, if they ever let me out, what I would do when I next faced my mother. No, I wouldn’t slap her again. But that evening amidst the mournful sorrows of the women around me, I squeezed the fingers of my right hand into a tight fist—opening, closing, opening, closing. I felt my feet revving up to charge the witch into hell to await her appointment with the Devil.
Finally allowed to go outside, attendants surrounded the crazies. Me, now one of them. For the most part, the sky remained clear. The few scattered clouds resembled claw marks as if God—if there was one—was trying to scratch his way in to find me. I knew better. The claw marks were mine, attempting to slash my way out.
From The Last Bordello, a historical novel set in 1901.
Daily Prompt: Pursue
Pursue
The guest of a Fruitcake
I had eaten my Swanson’s TV dinner on top of the TV tray and watched and listened to what I could on TV. Even Dr. Kildare, who usually makes me foolishly swoon, looked more like Barney Fife. I’m going bonkers. I know it.
But bedtime was bliss.
The “TSR”, the Temporary stay room,” as Olvie calls it, could be a lot worse than it is. Although the dresser and the headboard on the twin bed are stained puke green, the room itself is at the front of the house. I have one window that looks out to the street. The window on the side gives me a view of the neighbor’s trashcans lined up against their pink brick house.
I had discovered that the window locks are easy peezy. One twist and I could be home free. I know where our spare house key is hidden. How hard would it be to go home, at least for a few hours? Crank up my record player. Listen to Booker T. or the Isley Brothers on Mom and Dad’s new Magnavox player. Or, with the money Mom gave me for “emergencies,” I could go someplace else. Like, for days.
Current Work in Progress, a novel set in 1963 during segregation.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 