The wind overhead felt like a tornado rushing past my body, which caused me to look up—part curiosity, part survival instinct. I saw dozens of Young Pops—the name given to twenty-forth-century humans aged 15 to 30—zipping through the sky like they had somewhere very important to be, which they probably didn’t.

A female Young Pop had a pink jetpack strapped on, with matching pink hair highlights. Fashion clearly still matters at 30,000 feet. This wasn’t one of those 200-year-old, fuel-burning relics of old. No—her suit and jetpack moved like an elegant dance, a whisper against the air currents. She flew past without offering the optional two-finger community greeting. Rude, but maybe she was texting mid-flight. That generation does love their mid-air multitasking.

Nearby, a male had bionic tattoos that enhanced his strength. It wasn’t just added power; it was like his willpower had Bluetooth. Each muscle flex triggered a lift surge. How it worked—and his smug defiance of gravity—annoyed me. I smiled anyway and gave him the community greeting from the ground, surrounded by folks my age—thirty-five years past the Y-Pop maturity date and one bad back away from retirement.

He didn’t return the greeting either. Of course not.

My great-great-grandfather once traveled on the ground in a gas-thrust propulsion device that polluted the air and had to be manually driven over rough, uneven, jarring roads. Historical records say the ride was uncomfortable—like getting massaged by a sack of hammers. But at least it was on solid ground. And hey, back then, people regularly gave each other the one-finger greeting—that tradition, apparently, was alive and well.

Today, we’ve got flying shuttlecraft gliding through the atmosphere—clean, silent, smooth, and smug.

No more steering wheels. The AI system handles air traffic like a cosmic butler, catering exclusively to Y-Pop passengers.

I get it—the thrill of aerial freedom is intoxicating. But sometimes I wonder if the Y-Pop generation even remembers the scientists, engineers, and astronomers who made this freedom possible. Probably not. They’re too busy perfecting their mid-air selfies and neon wing upgrades.

Before the sky became freedom, Earth’s terra firma was the prize. Back then, people felt the ground was a chain. Ironically, they were right. One day, gravity on Earth shifted so drastically that anyone not tethered risked floating off the planet entirely. Turns out “down to Earth” is no longer a personality trait—it’s a survival requirement.

The flying suits are designed for Y-Pop only anyway. My wings were officially clipped around 2358. Budget cuts, age limits, and a minor incident involving a wind turbine. As more Y-Pops sail over my head, I grip my tether and offer them a historical one-finger greeting—a gesture passed down from my great-great-grandfather’s era.

Rina, "The Rushing Rhino," stepped onto the small stage. The Yokozuna Lounge was filled as fans of "The Rushing Rhino" prepared to watch her battle with a microphone after winning a match against Dai "Big Dong" Yamato, the male local favorite.

DJ Kaito, on stage behind her, mixed a melody of K-pop and R&B under shimmering lights. His spiky rainbow hair swayed to the beats he dropped as he followed her lead.

Rina stomped the floor, her 350 pounds rocked the platform as she mimicked the take down move on Big Dong in the dohyo sumo ring hours earlier.

DJ Kaito knew Rina "The Rushing Rhino" wasn't just a gimmick. She had a voice, a surprising alto that sumo opponents often heard during a match. She frequently sang in a sing-song voice while whispering to them, "It's time to tap out, honey."

Rina took a deep breath as broad shoulders rose and fell against the embroidered silk kimono she wore. Then, she sang.

Her voice transformed into something soft. It was a voice that carried the weight of her experience, of hard-won victories and quiet defeats. She sang of fleeting moments, love lost and found. Fans closed their eyes as they followed along with her lyrics.

"Steel in my shoulders, earth in my stance. A thunderous roar, a warrior's dance. They see the force, the power unbound, the Rushing Rhino, on hallowed ground. Each breath a prayer, each push a fight, beneath the spotlight, day and night."

Fans felt her unadulterated emotion. She may be the Rushing Rhino in the ring, but tonight she was simply Rina, sharing her voice with the world.

DJ Kaito was already searching for a follow-up track as cheers and whistles echoed through the club.

The old oak stood at the edge of the clearing, its branches like gnarled fingers reaching for the sky. Maya had always loved that tree. As a child, she'd spend hours beneath its shade, imagining creatures in the patterns of its bark.

She'd carve her initials, M.L., into it, an act of defiance as a teen. The Oak was her sanctuary, a place where she felt safe and understood.

As years passed, Maya grew up and moved to the city. This new life was far removed from the quiet solitude of the country. The memories of the old oak faded, replaced by the relentless demands of her career and the fast-paced urban existence. She rarely thought of her childhood or the small country town she'd left behind.

Then, one day, a letter arrived. It was from her grandmother. She wrote of the old oak, how it still stood, a silent sentinel, and how it seemed to be calling for her to return. A wave of nostalgia washed over Maya. She realized how much she missed the quiet, the country, and the tree.

She drove back the next weekend. The city receded in her rearview mirror, replaced by rolling hills and the familiar scent of pine. As she neared the clearing, her heart quickened. There it was. The old oak.

She walked towards it, her hand outstretched, and touched the rough bark. Her fingers traced the familiar grooves, and then, she saw them.

Her initials. M.L. They were still there.

The sight of those letters, a relic of her childhood self, brought tears to her eyes. All the years, all the distance, seemed to collapse in that single moment. She was no longer the driven city dweller, but the young girl who found solace in the heart of the woods.

She leaned against the trunk, the rough bark against her back, as she stood at the edge of the clearing, its branches like gnarled fingers still reaching for the sky.

The End...(maybe)

Crimson Whispers is my descriptive term for a fictional story about bidding for digital artwork. The image is the work of my talented friend Victor Kates.

Inside The Pushkin State Gallery of Fine Arts, Moscow:

The gallery was a hush of silent whispers and hand signals as the bidding began on canvas, metal, and stone sculptures. The artistry came from all over the world. First, Second, and Third World countries were represented by original artwork designed to showcase the social expression of each nation.

One Piece commanded a different kind of expression. It wasn't a canvas or a sculpture, but a digital 3D image set inside an 8K, 92-inch monitor by Viktor Lebedev, a software developer-turned-artist.

To call it an image felt like an injustice. It was the digital spirit of a woman, woven from pure light and shadow. Her profile was a symphony of white wavy lines, delicate as a spider's silk and dynamic as a rising tide. The lines flowed, intersected, and danced, defining the elegant curve of a feminine jaw line. At a 30-degree angle, her crimson lips appeared to purse, as if she were experiencing the human emotion of doubt or disapproval.

It was the megapixels in the image that had no flaw, just the ethereal shimmer of light tracing her existence. She seemed to breathe, to pulse, to be held in a state of suspended animation, yet visually alive.

Viktor, her creator, saw the monochromatic artistry of her lips at every angle. They were full, slightly parted at times, hinting at a breath just taken or a word about to be spoken. More than red, they were the deep, intoxicating hue of a forgotten velvet curtain, a rare wine to be tasted and savored.

Her lips were the focal point, the heart of the image, drawing every eye and holding it captive with a silent burning passion.

Viktor stood nearby. His left side trembled from Parkinson’s as he observed hobbyists' reactions to the bidding on his artistry.

“She may be my last creation,” he thought, while trying mentally to stop the shaking as his social anxiety increased.

It took months to perfect the algorithm that generated those wavy lines, weeks agonizing over the precise shade of red. Viktor pushed a wine table in front of his design. With effort, he climbed on top of the makeshift platform. Curious eyes of investors focused on him as he spoke with power and authority.

“Attention, attention, everyone! I know she's not a person,” Viktor stated.

“But to me, she feels more real than everything,” he professed. “With a heavy heart, I withdraw my work of art from the gallery.”

“Crimson Whispers is no longer for sale!” he declared with a finality that left no room for negotiation.

Art collectors gasped in shock. Others fainted, collapsing to the floor.

With a tear in his eye, the 73 -years- young artist awkwardly stepped down from the table. No one helped the unsteady senior. Rather, bankers, investors, and supporters spoke of lawsuits and false advertising among themselves. Viktor paid them no mind as his digital treasure seemed to approve of the announcement. The murmuring ceased, and everyone walked away.

Art collectors whispered in awe about the magnum opus in digital form that they no longer had access to. It was a muse, a mystery, and a masterpiece. Without another word, Viktor covered the monitor with a white sheet from the wine table. He switched the power button off, then cut the cord, forever preventing those who looked at the Crimson Whispers from seeing her again.

The End

- The Edith Fowler Series -

Pastor Collins raised his sallow hands signaling pallbearers to lower Lester Smith's coffin in the marked grave of Bleakville's cemetery. A smell of fresh soil wafted through the air, mixed with cut grass surrounding his interment. Craving booze, pastor Collins ignored his jaundiced look and took a sip from a hidden flask. He watched as townsfolk made their way to the Community Negro Baptist Church. There, they mourned Lester's death and ate comfort foods like fried chicken, dumplings, apple pie, and potato salad.

Mayor Edith Fowler dressed in a gray Dixie hat, white blouse, and black skirt for the occasion. She pulled a long-stemmed rose out of the pocket of her open vest and matching boots. A pricked finger drew blood, spotting the blouse near her heart. After buttoning the vest to conceal the blemish, she tossed the rose in the grave on top of the coffin she had specially built. Sealed before the ceremony, no one saw what was left of the colored man's body that was beaten and whipped by a mob days ago.

"No peace in life. Have peace in death," she prayed.

Edith put on her octagon glasses with gold forged frames. When her eyes adjusted to clarity, she looked at a family photo of the Smiths before tossing it in the hole as well. Lester's wife and two children fled town right after his body was found. The value of their lives was worth more than the possessions they left behind. A smell of retaliation ran through the air, putting fear in civilians. Bleakville lawmen stood on high alert. Sheriff Tuney spotted the mayor leaving the gravesite and called her out with urgency. Startled, she locked eyes on the briskly walking blond man coming towards her, stirring up dust as he approached.

"Mayor, I'm calling a meeting at the courthouse. I want the Bleakville town heads to meet me there lickety-split. This is a matter of life and death for our town," he insisted, blue eyes staring her down. "You best show up too," he said, with contempt. Edith kept her head low and said nothing.

"Your colored life is on the line for what you did," she felt he wanted to say.

* * *

Bleakville town heads filed into the courtroom. Sheriff Tuney Moonbay, Marshal Pete Doyle, Pastor Steven Collins, General Store owner Ewald Bensen, Blacksmith Arnett Hedley, doctor, and mortician Ingram Wardell assembled. The men who kept her town running stood before the mayor, a woman, the only colored in the room. Her clammy hands clasped together to avoid shaking as her heart pounded and breath shortened.

"Did you disremember widow Norma Thorton, the owner of 90 acres and the 40 cattle heads that help feed our town?" Edith spat out before she could stop herself. The sarcasm she was famous for escaped her lips, unable to be reeled back in.

"She was the one who instigated a riot when her husband Sam was killed," said the sheriff. "Then she got the owner of the Rusty Spur to start a petition that got a white man hung and Lester killed. That colored gal is not welcome here," he fumed. "Let's git started boys," he said while directing the men to maneuver tables and chairs together, deliberately cutting communication off with Edith.

She started to tell the sheriff "You're so weak north of ya ears that you couldn't lead a horse to water, no less a meeting," but thought better of it.

Sheriff Tuney took the front and center seat, a move to show he was now calling the shots. He passed a document around for the others to see. It was a proclamation for the arrest of Mayor Edith Fowler, signed by the governor of Pennsylvania. The paper reminded Edith of the petition her townsfolk signed a month ago requesting to have swift justice done to a man. The difference was this document contained a raised seal stamp and was signed by Governor Arthur Harry Moore himself.

As the sheriff started the meeting, someone knocked hard on the courtroom door just before entering. Florence, the Rusty Spur barmaid, balanced a tray of glasses and several bottles of whiskey as she made her way to the court table. Brown, blue, and gray eyes ogled her hourglass shape and brunette hair. Lust turned to disgust when her long locks betrayed the woman, revealing a hideous scar on the right side of her face as she put the glasses down.

"Obliged Miss Florence. You may leave. I'll settle up with you after the meeting at the Rusty Spur," said Sheriff Tuney.

"But Miss McIntyre requires I bring compensation back with the tray," she said diplomatically as Pastor Collins was the first to reach for a bottle, pouring a big gulp.

"Maybe you didn't hear right correctly," said the sheriff. He walked toward her with a menacing swagger and pointed a finger at the door. "You best skedaddle. I'll settle up wit that painted hen boss of yours when I'm done," he urged, his voice growing louder with each word.

"Yes sir sheriff!" Florence answered as she bolted through the door without looking back. She considered herself lucky that those men only wanted booze and let her go. Satisfied watching her race away, the sheriff closed the door, filled a glass with whiskey and hovered over the seated businessmen and mayor.

"Let's weigh our options. We could git some money and personal things together and git her outta town quiet like. Or we wait for the governor's men to bring her to trial for dereliction of duty in another jurisdiction. Either way will be hard," Sheriff Tuney added.

"What do we do about the hanging crew coming up from New Jersey? They want justice now, not a trial. And they will be here in a few days," remarked Arnett.

"We could put her in jail for her own safety," said Doc Ingram.

"That dog won't hunt. She won't last a day in there," corrected Marshal Pete, remembering how he aided a mob removing Maverick from the same jail at gunpoint.

A high-pitched screeching sound came from the mayor's chair when she suddenly pushed back, stood up, and pounded on the table. "SHE HAS A NAME!" the mayor yelled as her nostrils flared. Edith held tears in check, but not the raw vocal emotion of everyone talking as if she weren't present. Everyone stared at the mayor, now standing over them.

"Edith," the sheriff said as he slowly stood up also. "The governor wants you arrested for the lynching of Maverick Lawson on your watching eye," he reminded. "We are hoping to keep you outta that situation. And there's the New Jersey storm coming our way in the form of a neck-tie mob. If we don't hand you over to them, they will burn down the town in retaliation... so forgive us if we don't address you proper like," mocked the sheriff.

* * *

At the Rusty Spur, widow Thorton sat at the bar, exhausted from tending to her livestock. Norma's husband, Sam, killed by Maverick, earned her the moniker. Her dirty denim overalls and blue cotton shirt looked out of place on the colored woman in the bar. She was grateful that most patrons were at the church paying last respects to Lester Smith, one of the colored men who participated in the lynching of Maverick. Florence, overhearing talk about the widow, warned she had best wait for the meeting to be over before trying to talk to the mayor.

"They've been in there quite a spell," said Florence as she cleaned glasses behind the bar. "The mayor will fill us in when it's over," she continued.

"I hear they got a bounty on the mayor's head," chimed in Lucille McIntyre, owner of the bar. She had bought the Rusty Spur with money earned by spending time with men.

"If I had let matters be, the mayor wouldn't be in this spot," the widow said as she kicked the stool she sat on, causing dried-up mud on her boots to sprinkle the floor like sand. "But I have a plan. Something I learned from my grandma. I want to make things right, but the mayor must back me for it to work. As soon as that meeting ends, call her out, and Blacksmith Arnett. I'm gonna need him too."

* * *

Within 48 hours Bleakville came under siege. In the cover of the night, the Bleakville businessmen were tossed in jail with the marshal and wounded sheriff after a brief shootout. Several New Jersey henchmen stood guard and mocked the town heads standing in the overcrowded cell.

"I'd offer you boys some drink, but you only got one chamber pot to piss in," joked one of the Jersey men as the others laughed out loud.

Men ate, drank, and caused a ruckus at the Rusty Spur. Several fought for a turn with Lucille's painted ladies. The demand for flesh was so high that Florence the barrister was forced to take up with men at half the price on account of her scarred face. Lucille tended the bar while Florence took on two out-of-towners. One of them left an upper bedroom and pranced down the stairs wearing just a wife-beater, carrying coins. He dropped them on the table.

"Whiskey, a full bottle this time," he said. "And let me borrow a hat for a spell."

"To cover yourself?" Lucille asked.

"No, to cover that heifer's face," he said as he went back up the stairs with a bottle and a 10-gallon hat.

More men came into the bar, this time with the New Jersey lynch mob leader, Vasil Huges, a name Lucille and her ladies were familiar with. Vasil was the man responsible for a mob beating Lester to death when he was questioned in Gold Rose County, and had gotten away with it. He came up to the bar and sat down with three men. His brown eyes looked through her as she stared back at the unwanted patron. Lucille didn't have any more women available if he wanted one for his boys. The ones she had were bruised up and worn out. Terrified, she envisioned herself on her back, with a line of men waiting for a turn. His words snapped her back to reality.

"I was told you know the whereabouts of that colored mayor," Vasil said over the noise of the bar.

"I might know if I can get that bounty on her head," Lucille suggested.

"I'll see you get the bounty. As long as I get to burn her alive," he declared.

"She's hiding in the Funeral Parlour, waiting for your men to leave town," Lucille revealed as she poured the four men each a shot of whiskey with shaky hands.

"If that's true, you'll have the coins as soon as I lynch her behind this nice establishment," he chuckled while he searched Lucille's demeanor for motives. Finding none, he asked: "Why you giving the mayor the little end of the horn?"

"When Edith became mayor, she gave the job a lick and some promises, but she didn't keep any. She caused all the trouble you see in town. All she had to do was wait for the sheriff and let justice be done," she lamented while pouring Vasil more whiskey.

"It's all 'cause Edith had a rough growing up. Got passed around a few slave owners that liked youngins. When she thought one of Bleakville's boys was touched wrong, she let Maverick swing. Truth be told, that kid was stretching the blanket. I'm sure he wasn't telling it right. But what's done is done, and I want that bounty," she said without guilt. Vasil finished his second drink as his men pushed back what was left of their first. No one paid for the liquor.

"Let's take a walk over to the Parlour," Vasil told his men. He looked at Lucille. If I don't find what I'm looking for...me and the boys will pay you a not so friendly visit," he promised her as hard eyes undressed the voluptuous woman before they headed out.

* * *

Vasil's men surrounded the Funeral Parlour. He placed a man by the south side window and the back, even though there was no exit. He stood by the front door. More men had guns drawn, waiting for instructions.

"You, go fetch the mortician from jail. His name is Ingram. I want to know if he's in on hiding the mayor," Vasil told a blond henchman then turned to another."And you, go over to General merchandise and buy enough oil to burn the Parlour down if need be," he told a stockily built man."And you," he said to another, "go fetch that painted lady Lucille. Bring her to me," he directed the last man.

"If the mayor got away, I'll pass Lucille around to the boys, then burn down the Parlour for my troubles," Vasil promised himself as he loaded his gun, preparing to go inside the building.

He looked through the side window of the Funeral Parlour but a bloody smear on the glass hampered viewing. Frustrated, he kicked open the unlocked front door. A stench of death stopped him in his tracks.

"Good God!" Vasil said, holding his nose.

"Did she kill her fool self?" said a ponytailed-man following behind Vasil. He covered his mouth and nose with a hand but kept his gun out. As they walked, the smell of death became stronger, causing ponytail-man to vomit. The only light inside came from the door kicked open. A buzzing sound like a thousand flies was heard, but Vasil couldn't locate the source. Ponytail-man put his gun away and wiped spittle from his mouth as he swiped at flies swarming the room. They continued looking around.

As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they saw a row of chairs on the left and right side of the Funeral Parlour. Sitting in the chairs were several rotting corpses in various stages of decomposition, held together by deteriorating clothes. In the center of the floor was an octagon drawn in blood. Human skeletal bones connected to two points like the hands of a clock. Flower arrangements made of intestines hung on a closed casket that sat on a wooden table in front of the circle.

"Dead coloreds...having service? Who's leading it?" Vasil stammered. Then he heard the coffin unlock. The top half of the specially built casket creaked and squeaked on noisy hinges as it opened. The contents were fully visible even in the dim light. Vasil and ponytail-man saw a body wearing a gray Dixie hat, gold frames, and a white blouse. It slowly sat up.

"She done come alive!" yelled ponytail-man as both men fired at the body, fear causing them to miss the mark. Bullets bounced off the steel-reinforced casket, hitting chairs, corpses, and the Parlour walls. The men backed out of the building, still firing. The flash of gunfire illuminated the room enough to see the body lie back down.

"Burn it!" Vasil hollered at the men standing guard. "Burn it down! If anything comes out... shoot it!" he ordered as the men threw oil around the building, through the front door, and set it on fire.

Lucille and Ingram, tied to a pole, gasped at the burning Parlour. Vasil cut the two loose and helped Lucille to her feet as townspeople came out from their homes to put out the fire. Vasil's men prevented them from starting a bucket brigade, so all just stood by and watched it burn.

"Is the mayor in there, Vasil?" asked Lucille, terrified as the Parlour burned.

"She is," he answered. He thought about those gold frames and the body lying back down in the casket. A sight he would never forget. "She's in there with four corpses, having some kinda...something."

"Oh, God!" Lucille cried out, hugging Ingram tightly as flames engulfed the whole building, turning the beginning of dusk into a bright orange night.

"God had nothing to do with what I saw in there," Vasil remarked. "And...I'm a man of my word. I'll go over to General and fetch the bounty I promised," he told Lucille, still looking at the burning Parlour.

"Won't be anything left when that fire is out," Ingram rambled as the heat and flying ash pushed everyone back.

* * *

A horse and buggy rode away from Bleakville. Looking back briefly, she saw an amber light of something ablaze. Edith, wearing dirty denim overalls and an old blue cotton shirt carried food, water, and a gun in a wooden chest in the back of the buggy.

"Judging by the fire, I'd say all went well...or to hell," she said to herself.

"I'll have to give thanks to Widow Thorton one day. She knew Vasil was a superstitious fool and would be scared of the bodies we set up in the Funeral Parlour. When I get further away, I'll stop and say a prayer for the bodies I had dug up to make Vasil and his Jersey men think I was coming to life, leading the dead. One day, I'll thank Arnett too. That blacksmith fixed the casket with springs, making Lester's body in my clothes and glasses stir up and down. Bless that man and Lucille with her ladies keeping the men off-kilter. Everyone will think Lucille turned against me, but she played a part in the plan too.

"I have to make it to Gold Rose County. Then take a train using the widow's name out to another state. I will start a fund to build another town with my cut of the bounty Lucille will send to me. I will not fail this time. There will be justice for every color man and woman in my new town...or there will be justice for none."

Edith continued on the dirt trail using the clear moonlit sky to guide her, thinking only about the 4-day journey to Gold Rose County.

"Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions."

~ T.S. Eliot

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. All Rights Reserved

THE BLEAKVILLE GAZETTE - Owned by Mayor Edith Fowler (r.i.p)

***Lynch Mob Abandon Hunt After Fire In Mortuary***

Sheriff and Marshall Reclaim Bleakville From Vigilantes - Morning Press -July 17th, 1877

An alleged lynch mob from New Jersey led by Pinkerton officer Vasil Huges age 39, was called off after a fire burned down the Bleakville Funeral Parlour with beloved Mayor Edith Fowler trapped inside.

The mayor was seeking a pardon from Governor Arthur Moore after she was implicated in the death of white businessman Maverick James Lawson, from Lakewood Tennessee, age 35 by an unknown mob. He was found lynched behind the Rusty Spur, a Saloon run by Lucille McIntyre, age 29.

According to the governor, Mayor Fowler failed to protect Lawson who was in custody. Mr. Lawson was part of the governors administrative staff but his job was not known. Several patrons witnessed Pinterton Security officers surround the funeral home, trapping the mayor inside. For some unknown reason the home caught fire killing the mayor. Deceased citizens in their caskets were also consumed by the intense fire. It is unsure why the fire was not put out before it destroyed the 12 year old building.

Sheriff Tuney and Marshal Pete lead a group of 35 township men that forced the Pinkterton's out of town. With the henchmen gone, the town restored order to Bleakville. Ingram Wardell, the mortician for Bleakville, promised to rebuild the parlour and dedicate it to the founder of Bleakville, Edith Fowler.

Story written by B.D., The last reporter of the Bleakville Gazette

-The Edith Fowler Series-

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

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

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

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

"Not me Ma'am."

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A loud voice commanding attention spoke boldly behind everyone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wait till morning, Lester," she instructed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Darnell Cureton. All Rights Reserved

THE BLEAKVILLE GAZETTE - Owned and operated by Mayor Edith Fowler

***Mob Lynch White Man***

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

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

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

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

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

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

(writing prompt 'Don't Tell Anyone')

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year to everyone!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © 2024 DarnellCureton – All rights reserved

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