CONTENTS

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS         

PROSE

YARD DOG  // Tade Thompson

The first few times Yard Dog shows up at Saucy Sue’s seedy spot for gangsters and jazz hopefuls, he’s just a shadow that makes everyone suspicious. Then, Yard Dog blows his trumpet...and everything changes.         

TEDDY BUMP  // Sheree Renée Thomas

What happens to missing Black girls? Where do they go when their childhood abruptly ends? And who remembers them when the world seems to forget? In this story we find one possible afterlife for them, and it ain’t nowhere good...         

AND SONGS DON’T END  // Osahon Ize-Iyamu

Momma’s perfect songs are the only thing holding a family curse at bay. But when Momma falls silent, it’s time for something to change.         

THE PERCIVALS: THE BENNETT BENEFIT  // Eboni J. Dunbar

In this story of music and high manners, two women take on darkness in the English countryside         

SISTER ROSETTA THARPE AND MEMPHIS MINNIE SING THE

STUMPS DOWN GOOD  // LaShawn M. Wanak

Both Rosetta Tharpe and Memphis Minnie are stump exterminators for Stump Prevention Control, using their voices to destroy humanoid stumps before they explode. But when Rosetta and Minnie discover that Stump Prevention Control is hiding deadly secrets from the people they are sworn to protect, will their friendship, faith, and musical skill be enough for them to survive the fallout?

CONTENT WARNING: sexual assault, death of a child

POETRY

ELLA HOUR  // Uche Ogbuji        

I SING THE LADY ELECTRIC  // Latonya Pennington        

night chimes  // Lisa Allen-Agostini

EXTRAS

THANKS

July 2018

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Welcome to issue seven of Fiyah Magazine of Black Speculative Fiction.

As always, we would like to thank our staff, readers old and new, contributors, and everyone who believes in our magazine. This work doesn’t happen without you, and without you, there are fewer reasons to do the work.

This issue’s theme is Music, and we are excited for all of you to dig in. As we said in our initial call for submissions, black peoples’ contribution to the global phenomenon that is music is unmatched. We were the initial voice praising the deities of the moon, we were the drumbeat of life and love and survival. We were the death metal scream, the rat-a-tat of gangster rap lyrics, the sensual bassline and sweat-slicked nape of house. We were the bluesman’s muse and the frenetic energy of the jazz jam session. We requested stories that took the ideas of this cultural work and freaked it in the ways that only black writers can. What we got is nothing short of genius. The work collected in this issue captures the spirit of our collective musical history and legacy and uses that spirit to tell the stories contained between the notes, chords, and bars.

Our cover art comes from Mariama Alizor, and her work is bright, blazing, electric, loaded with color and light and joy. Our fiction for this issue is spectacular. Tade Thompson’s “Yard Dog” is a mysterious jazz-age tale of trumpets and indescribable horrors. Sheree Renée Thomas’ “Teddy Bump” tells the tale of girls who use their music to overcome a being of cruelty and evil. In Eboni J. Dunbar’s “The Percivals: The Bennett Benefit,” two women who are not all that they seem put on the show of their lives. Osahon Ize-Iyamu’s “And Songs Don’t End” explores the impact of a family musical legacy that is also a curse. And LaShawn M. Wanak’s “Sister Rosetta Tharpe and Memphis Minnie Sing the Stumps Down Good” is a robust tale of faith, corruption, and sisterhood.

Our poetry offerings for this issue are Lisa Allen-Agostini’s “night chimes,” Uche Ogbuji’s “Ella Hour,” and LaTonya Pennington’s “I Sing the Lady Electric.”

This issue includes an extra poem and story offering in the place of an indie spotlight, courtesy of   Barrelhouse Magazine’s Amplifier Award, presented in partnership with Submittable, which allowed us to purchase more fiction for this issue. We would like to thank the folks at Barrelhouse for supporting black speculative fiction. If you would like to support black speculative fiction as well, feel free to send us a donation.

As always, we appreciate you, dear reader, and we want to thank you for your continued support of Fiyah Magazine. Now, put on your favorite playlist, fix yourself a cold drink, and get this work.

We hope you enjoy the issue.

Executive Editors: Justina Ireland + Troy L. Wiggins + Brandon O’Brien

Acquiring Editors: Brent Lambert + DaVaun Sanders + Kaleb Russell + Danny Lore

Layout: LeKesha Lewis

Cover Artwork by Mariama Alizor

YARD DOG

By Tade Thompson

I thought he was a Fed at first.

Okay, no, I didn't, but in hindsight I should have. The second time he turned up at Saucy Sue's everybody noticed him on account of his height and his clothes which were righteous. I'm the only one who saw him arrive the night before. He was furtive, dressed in…I don't know what, man. He wore shoes and pants that even the Salvation Army would turn down. The height was there, but he was such a dark cat that, without the flash of jewellery, he faded into the background. I played percussion, that first night. Al played the horn, some shit he'd cribbed off watching Dizzie in St Louis. Saucy Sue's was a gangster's joint, but many of the jazz clubs were back then, and a Fed or two or an undercover cop wasn’t out of the ordinary. He was a yard dog that first night, and every other night he came in, that's the name that stuck in my head, even before he started playing.

Al and I were filling-in. The usual percussion and horn guys were dope sick trying to kick a habit, and the manager, a cat called Layton, literally plucked us out of the crowd. That was the beginning of a six-month gig, sweet, and I cut my teeth for later in my career. Nothing like playing six nights a week to hone your discipline.

Yard Dog was at the back, watching, smoking some hand-rolled stuff that I thought had some reefer mixed-in, but when the cops stopped us one time and checked, it was only tobacco. But. It wasn't that simple. Motherfucker switched that shit, I'm sure, because I remember he blew the smoke in my face when I was talking shit one time. I saw things, but considering what happened later, a few hallucinations were nothing to make noise about. Yard Dog was like six-six if he was an inch. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, athletic looking, but stooped, bringing himself down to Earth, Al would say. First night, he didn't say nothing, just watched, smoked and left.

Second night, he was waiting when we packed up for the night, and he said, "That was real cool." He walked away before I could respond. We had a singer then, called herself Shonda, voice would break an angel's heart. She took her sweet time watching him walk away. Difficult not to, I suppose. Yard Dog was visible, noticeable, even before he opened his mouth. Why, then, had nobody seen him on that first night? I think that was down to him, down to how much he wanted to be seen.

Sue's had audience nights every two weeks or so, usually when the band was fatigued or someone was sick or talking to their P.O. Those nights, Al and me would kick back with some drinks and listen to some hopped-up or drunk motherfuckers trying to hold a tune. Though we always refused, one or two of them always asked to try our instruments, and Al had to smack a persistent cat once. Al wasn’t big like Yard Dog, but he was fierce, fast, and experienced. He'd been in plenty of fights, and loved to talk about either music or beating a person down. I remember a cat they used to call Captain, before our time, just got out of prison. Captain stole Al’s reefer and sat on the stoop of the Patterson Hotel, smoking, all hotsy totsy. Al takes a mouthful of coffin varnish, walks up to Captain, spits the liquor in his face, kicks him in the bongos, lights him on fire, and only trillies because of a pounder who ran up.  But fuck Captain, he was unhep.

On this night, some drunk guy was playing Armstrongs, but sadder than a map, depressing everyone. Sue's doesn't waste time with inferior entertainment. You could be high until you're touching God's toenails, nobody would care as long as you played well. But if you blew shit, your survival time was the five minutes it takes Benny to get from the door, through the crowd, to the stage. Open night is no excuse for bad jazz. So, shitty drunk guy was out and Yard was next. He went up there and put his lips to it. I can't tell you what he played because I don't remember, but I do know that the note was clear and high and piercing. Not a soul spoke. Not a soul could  speak because whatever Yard played made everybody blow their wigs, man, bible.

I was unaware of any other person in that room. Yard himself disappeared and everything was that note, that sound, that fucking horn. I don't know how long it lasted, but when he stopped he was staring down at the floor. There was silence and I know I was crying. Shit, everyone in Saucy Sue's was crying: pimps, prostitutes, hustlers, every single one. It seemed it was silent for hours but it couldn't have been more than a minute or two, then people started clapping and whooping. Yard calmly picked up his instrument and walked off the stage. No other blower would go up there because how do you follow that? Understand, I’m not talking about skill here. Yard could beat it out, but what I'm talking about here is magic.

One other thing, something curious: all the drinks in the house went bitter that night. When people got their emotions together, they found themselves thirsty, and they drank. And spat everything out. There was nothing worth drinking or listening to. The drug fiends even said there was no dragon to chase. All intoxicants would not intoxicate. It was the damnedest thing.

I tell you, that night? Any woman or man would have dropped their drawers for him, but Yard left.

Next night, he's back, leaning against the wall, cool as ever. Better dressed, but his name stuck. He carried his horn everywhere.

Gossip blossomed like hopheads in a flophouse. Where did he live? Where was he from? Where did he train? He wasn’t some tender motherfucker on leave from Julliard. Choir boy from church, maybe? Many jazz guys got their chops blowing Amazing Grace. What kind of horn was that anyway? One of those English Bessons? A Higham? The fire of speculation burned and would continue to burn until the next open night. Shonda took a fancy to him and preened to get his attention. It worked. You should know that Al and Shonda used to be a thing, and now they're… well, I don't know, I can't say not a thing, but they still have business.

Shonda did go on a date with Yard, but that was after Shed came along.

Shed wasn't his name. We called him that for reasons you'll understand in a minute. Never did catch what he called himself, and by the time we met him later, there was no need to call him anything but scary. Shed turns up during this godawful argument between Saucy's and the supplier about that booze that went bad. This was unnecessary because for one thing, the booze was fine until Yard blew. Secondly, it wasn't just the liquor that went off. The water, the milk, the orange juice, anything you can chuck down your neck had been bitterified.

Unlike Yard, Shed was small. Not ugly, but plain. You never saw a person more uncomfortable in human skin. Shed moved like the Devil hisself was walking behind him, prodding him with a pitchfork: spurts of speed, then uncertain shuffling, then fast again, always looking surprised when he made a few steps. Speaking of skin, he was one of those brothers minted so dark, he seemed navy blue. He, at first, couldn't be heard over the shouts. Then, when noticed, his language seemed so garbled that they thought him a foreigner, which, I suppose, he was. Nobody saw him come in.

"Negro, what do you want?” Sue said. “Speak slowly and in English, fool,"

You need to know that Sue herself was a formidable woman, not to be fucked with. Not just that she was big, nearly six feet tall and with the attitude of a drill-sergeant. She had backing, if you know what I mean. There were shadowy people who owned the bar lined up behind her, folks who don’t declare to the IRS, and who pounders and snatchers ignore because it’s impossible to convict. This was not unusual, and you need to remember the times for what they were. This was when luminaries like Cab Calloway and Dizzy Gillespie got into a knife fight back in 1941. What I'm saying is, nobody was to be fucked with back then, not even refined motherfuckers like Earl Hines. You didn’t start nothing, you didn't mess with anybody. Nobody worth listening to, anyway.

Shed just smiled into her face and spoke slowly. In English.  

"Please, have you seen my brother, thank you?"

"What?"

Shed said it slower and louder. "Please. Have you. Seen my. BROTHER. Thank you."

"I don't know you or your brother. How did you get in, anyway? We're not open. Get the fuck out of here."

The way I heard it, Shed just smiled at her and went to use the john, but never came back out. Hours later when tempers had cooled somewhat, Sue got curious about him, had one of the men check the bathroom. They found his raggedy clothes, a trail of blood, strips of skin, meat and other fluids leading from the door to one of the stalls. Al said it was like he had shed his skin, which is how come we called him Shed. It wasn't till later that we figured he was looking for Yard. Over the next few days we didn't see Shed, but knew he was all over the place because people kept talking about this guy asking questions and finding crumpled clothes and any combination of skin and flesh, no bones. It was the weirdest thing, but it was a stunt of some kind, right? Like in ’53 when those dumbasses shaved and dyed a rhesus monkey green, then blow-torched the asphalt, calling it an alien landing.

Yard was hanging out with us at lot, at rehearsals, whenever we were kicking back, or sometimes at Dizzy's house on Seventh Avenue in Harlem. He met Miles and Monk. Charlie Parker was usually too high to remember meeting him. One night Shonda finally convinces Yard to go yam with him at some fancy place. She was really insistent, and they left us. I noticed Al watching and I first thought he was jealous. I was worried he was going to attack Yard, but that's not what happened.

He said we had to go too. I'm not too proud of this part, but Al and I used to run together. We weren't making much money as musicians and we did take drugs. Pretty much everybody in the scene did back then. Al did some burglaries and I went along sometimes. Not trying to say he had to twist my arm, you understand. I wasn’t willing, but not exactly unwilling either.

Al took us to Yard's place that night. Don't ask me how he found out where the guy lived, but he must have followed him. He said he was working with Shonda and we'd have to split the take. No lock can resist Al, and when we got in he went about the business of finding valuables. I saw the horn case. I'd like to say there was some magnetic pull or that the thing called to me, or something that would absolve me. Fact is, I was just curious. The case was unremarkable and opened easily. The horn itself gleamed. I could not tell who made it, and there was no brand, serial number or trademark anywhere. That was itself strange. Brass wasn’t cheap, and all the good ones had serial numbers. Next thing I know, it's in my hands, and then… well, it's on my lips. I blew.

Later, Shonda told me at that very moment Yard looked up, alarmed, and stood to leave the restaurant without so much as a see-ya-later. Al said he dropped the cash he had scavenged and clasped his hands to his ears to shut the sound out. I didn't know any of this at the time ‘cos I heard nothing, even thought it was broken. It wasn’t. What happened is the room started to glow, orange, like a coal fire at first, then a hurricane of colour swirling around me, but detached from the origins. Blues, maroons, greens, swirling like ghosts. The walls, though still there, became immaterial, or invisible. Everything clear as one of those engineering drawings, leached of colour. I saw the night sky, and the clouds ignited with a yellow-red flame, and rolled back in all directions. The stars… most of them winked out in an instant, but dozens of them started falling to Earth. Then I heard a great wind blowing, and from far away, a voice.

In the blackness of that sky-which-was-no-longer-a-sky I sensed something stirring, something meant to be in slumber, something malevolent and implacable.

"Stop," said Yard, and I came to myself again.

Al was gone, and the building was on fire around me, hot wind howling past my ears, putting my heart in a ferment. Yard acted as if nothing was amiss. He took the horn, cleaned it, then placed it in the case. After he had sealed it, he turned to me, shook his head and offered a hand. I swear, with the building coming down around us, backdrafts and flashovers everywhere, nothing harmed us. He walked us calmly out of the building where Al was waiting with his hands wrapped up.

Later, he told me he tried to lift me, to get me out of the building, but I was hot. He said he got burned from touching me. Al is full of shit at the best of times, and he probably touched a banister, but so much crazy stuff was going on that I was willing to believe him.

About that time, Shed came doddering down the middle of the road. He left a trail of blood and shredded skin.

Yard's shoulders slumped when he saw Shed.

"Brother," he said.

"This…sound is not for listen on Earth, brother. Not for listen. You know this." Shed's words were still mangled, but we understood him. He turned to me. "Why this one’s face glowed, please?"

"He blew the trumpet," said Yard. "It will be fine. It was for a short time only."

"Who are you people?" asked Al, quaver in his voice that I ain’t never heard out of him before right then.

Shed smirked.

Yard said, “We are two of the seven motherfuckers whose job it is to fuck this reality up when the time comes.”

“But not time yet, and my brother, he knows it,” said Shed.

"I wanted to play, that's all. No harm done." Yard seemed petulant, like the younger of the two.

Skin dropped off Shed, and the more he lost his covering, the clearer his speech became. "Yeah, I'm gonna disagree with that. I heard you all the way from home and I was sent to bring you and the trumpet back. You're not even supposed to have it." He came to me and touched my face. "You'll be all right. Get some sleep. And stop stealing shit."

With that, the flesh of his face slid off, revealing the bone underneath. His jaw fell along with the muscle, leaving his tongue lolling like a prick. He looked at Yard. "I can never do these human bodies as well as you do. Take off the vessel. Let's go home."

Al and I disagreed on what happened next, but I’m telling the story, so I’ll give you my version. They fell into their clothes and shrivelled up. Yard, Shed and the horn, gone. We kicked their clothes into the fire, even though Yard had some fine threads. By the time the cops and the actual Feds turned up we were long gone.

That's almost the end of the story. This shit happened in 1944, maybe '45. You don't have to believe me. Shonda spent a lot of time searching for who or what they might be, got entangled with some tinfoil-wearing motherfuckers for a while. She said she had to know, like it was some itch in her brain that she had to scratch or something. I don't know about that. I do know that I have not been sick a day since I touched that horn, and I am now ninety-five. I still have all my own teeth and I've outlived two wives. I kicked the cocaine, made some minor waves in bebop and what came after. Al is still alive, and he was older than me to start with. I'd say we look about forty. Shonda is still alive. She and Al are still on again, off again, or makeups-to-breakups as I think the kids say these days. Nobody who was in Saucy Sue's the night Yard played died young. That trumpet did something to us all.

When I sleep, and I don't sleep much, but when I do, I dream of that thing out there beyond the sky, that thing stirring, waiting to wreak havoc. In some versions a taloned, scaled arm reaches out of the abyss and hands me a horn. I wake up screaming. Then I have to go outside and look at the stars and the moon or even just the clouds, night air on my face.

Then I am fine.

—END—

ABOUT TADE THOMPSON

Tade Thompson is a writer of Yoruba descent who lives and works in the United Kingdom. He is the author of THE MURDERS OF MOLLY SOUTHBOURNE, ROSEWATER, and MAKING WOLF. His work has won the Golden Tentacle Award and the Nommo Award for African Speculative Fiction. He has been nominated for the Shirley Jackson Award, the BSFA award, and is a John W. Campbell finalist.

TEDDY BUMP

By Sheree Renée Thomas

Down down baby, down down

a rollercoaster

Sweet sweet baby, sweet sweet

won’t let you go…

∙∙∙

Melanie kicks her skinny legs out. Her ashy elbows and arms pump and pump, ricochet off the cool wintry air. She wears summer clothes, a flowery church dress that billows around her, like a pink upturned umbrella, and cornrows, neat and lustrous, her Easter Sunday best. Melanie swings from a frayed brown rope. Her ankle socks must have looked good in her shiny black Mary Janes, but one shoe is missing. Her giggles bounce off the shards of ice atop the frozen red earth of Miss Dinah’s playground. They echo around her, crimson crystals glistening beneath her tiny feet. One shoe on, one shoe off, locked somewhere in an old dusty box, the label is faded, her name long since unremembered, unread.

KeKe blows bubbles in her left hand and waves them around like a magician, pops them like iridescent smoke rings. The bubbles float over her shoulder and drift past the slide that is still and silent for now, then disappear into the surrounding trees. The rusted merry-go-round spins ever so slowly behind her. It creaks and growls like the sound of Miss Dinah’s laughter. KeKe sits with her back against a green glacier rock, denim legs splayed out in front of her, like a giant black baby doll. Miss Dinah smiles down at us, then floats from her perch in the willow tree. I shudder then wave from my spot on the prickly grass and hope Miss Dinah doesn’t land near me. Melanie laughs and pumps her little legs harder, swinging from the sturdy oak. Even if someone finds the other shoe Melanie is not wearing, somewhere across the red-stained layers of time, as far as the world beyond is concerned, we are all still missing.

The word ricochets in my mind like a stray bullet, and I rub the side of my head. It hurts sometimes to be, just thinking. Sometimes, when the sky is flesh and Melanie’s dress flies and flutters like a hollow-boned bird, like the butterfly that once carried me far away from home, I wonder if we are truly missed, missing. Those words hurt, the words Miss Dinah is so careful to never say. When it is cold outside and all the land is grieving, when Melanie is swinging like the first days of Spring, I wonder. Are we missing if no one in the world is looking for us, if we are just another random group of little black girls lost?

“Halloo!” Melanie cries and leaps from her swing, arcing through the air, a giggling brown grasshopper. “Come on, Ruby, KeKe,” she says. “Turn for me?”  The rope spins slowly, unseen hands, a question mark waiting in the air behind her.

I groan. I was just getting comfortable. It’s not Melanie’s fault that she is the youngest among us, that she still finds some joy in this place. Somehow our littlest playmate holds onto hope, but we’ve be here so long with Miss Dinah, I’m not sure what that means. KeKe coughs, doesn’t even look up. Amber, as always, is carving her name furiously in the bark of a tree. What’s left of her dress hangs in dark shreds. We pretend like we don’t see the wounds beneath them. I pretend the ice on my back is a sailboat. I pretend it will rock me away like a grandmama’s arms, like sleep, drifting down through the river of air, spiriting me back to where I belong, fighting my way back to my own tree-lined street, where the sky is Mama.

“Ruby!” Melanie whines and I can feel Miss Dinah’s eyes frowning down at me. Her eyes are so big, they hold a whole river in them. If I knew how, I would climb up in those eyes and kick and swim. If I knew how, I would snatch that rope and find my own way home.

“Leave me alone, ole wor’sem girl.”

“I ain’t wor’sem,” she says. “I’m ‘sistent.”

“Persistent,” Amber says. Her sparkly scrunchie and messy bun dangles on the side. Amber is always whispering in that child’s ear, as if new words could change our story. Amber was like a house where the lights are always off. You knew someone lived there, but they were never seen.  She carves, destroys whole trees with her big seeking words, hiding in the dark bark of her weird scriptures. As if prayer would save us now, trapped on the other side of Miss Dinah’s trees. “You’re too old to talk like that,” I say. “Didn’t she teach you how to read yet?”

Amber rolls her eyes, brushes away pieces of bark. I watch as she wipes the knife on her bare thigh. I am cold just looking at her. There is no heat from the Jackball sun that spins in the sky above us. It pulses and shimmers, the colors swirling with every move Miss Dinah makes.

Melanie digs her big toe into the hard bright earth, kicks at one of the many weirdly shaped rocks that litter the playground. Her head hangs low, lace white sock buried beneath the ice and snow.

"Be nice," Miss Dinah says. Her white teeth glisten like new bones, the words whispered this time, not quite a hiss. Why girls always got to be nice? I huff and puff, and imagine a big gust of wind blows all their asses down, like the house in the story Mama once read to me. I feel my eyes swell up, the pressure behind my closed lids rising, an electric black cloud. I bite my lip hard but as usual I don’t taste anything. Not even blood. I don’t wanna be, but I’m mad now. Madder than Amber, who is slaughtering another tree. Madder than KeKe, who is always crying and picking at the frayed threads of her jeans, saying how she used to be fine, so damn fine, Teddy Bump fine and pretty. I want to snatch Melanie by her shiny naps, kick Miss Dinah in her sparkly teeth, her dusty shin. Everything was so good, so right before… Why they make me remember? It’s cold enough as it is, here. It hurts to remember, and Melanie’s little baby girl voice now feels like a cold fire running through my head, burning right into my brain.

"It’s alright, Ruby."

Miss Dinah reaches for me with Mississippi Missionary Baptist white gloved hands. Stiff and clean, she looks like an usher at Granddaddy’s old church. I turn and roll over. Don’t want her touching me, rubbing her hurt all over me. I trusted her once, Miss Dinah and her Double Dutch lies promising a new way home. You’ll play all the time, she said. Never grow hungry, never be cold. If I could count all the lies a haint told me, I’d be counting forever.  

The icy grass stabs and pricks, tickles my belly. Sometimes I envy Melanie. Even if it is just one foot, at least she gets to feel real air, feel real grass tickling her toes, her heel and her sole. The one not wearing the patent leather shoe. Me, I feel nothing but pain. Miss Dinah says she thinks Melanie went missing in her sleep—as if she does not know how. And who does that? Goes missing in their sleep, like a bad dream except when you wake up, you don’t exist? Only Miss Dinah would tell a lie like that, sing you a lie and make it feel like truth. But for me, it is always the same. My right pinky toe is squenched up in Emerald’s shoes. The black ankle boots are so tight I can almost feel a corn growing. All my big sister’s hand-me-downs were too little for me. My too early breasts were too big, crushed inside her too small shirts. My butt, my height, my mouth, everything too much. Mama called it, “mighty inconvenient.” And though my feet hurt and my heart hurt too, I would laugh, we would roll and gasp together, laughing so hard I could not breathe. Being a little black girl can be mighty inconvenient sometimes. I laugh every time I think of it.

And that is what I miss most. Not the thinking but Mama’s laughter. She looked so pretty with her eyes all big, not full of worry, and her perfect doll baby lips turned just so. She could make the biggest hurt sound like a joke, make you laugh so hard the pain disappeared in your throat. Not like Miss Dinah. When she laughs, the sound is a splinter in your big toe, glass in your ears. She is the crow in the tree, mocking us, each girl one of her shiny things, her own special jewel, a collection she has picked through the ages. When she laughs, you want to hide and disappear all over again.

“I found you," she crows. "No one else did, maybe no one else will. Remember that."

What I remember is Mama’s absence. What I remember is spending my first twelve years missing Mama, missing her laughter. Mama worked so hard, but when she laughed you wouldn’t know it. I guess everybody’s got mamas like that. Working so hard to make you the woman they think you should be, can be, worrying so hard that only a little bit of them is left. The girl part almost gone, disappeared. But when Mama laughed there was no more worry. She sounded like light. And though it never grows dark, night never comes here, I wonder if Emerald still turns all the lights on, if she still spends each breath waiting for Mama to come back home, waiting for her to return from work or sleep. Waiting for the sun sound of her laughter, so we could all feel light, pretty, free, safe.

But we are not free and there is no safe here. We just is. We exist, between who we once were and whatever we have become. I’ve been here so long I don’t know if I am a girl anymore, grown, or something else in between.

“Push me!” Melanie says, her face twisted up in a little brown knot. I want to push her and hold her at once. I want to push and be pushed, to hold and be held. None of that should matter here, but it does. No matter how many scars Amber carves into the tree, no matter how many holes KeKe digs out of her denim pants legs, as long as I’ve been here, this loneliness, this ache is always here.

I push myself up from the ice crystal grass. The sound is soft wind chimes in the cold air. I can hear KeKe shivering, sniffling behind me, and Miss Dinah—her cold eyes bearing holes into my back, the top of my head. The Jackball sun is a sickly green, a bruised blue now. Miss Dinah is mad. When she looks at you, you feel like you will disappear all over again, and whatever little peace you felt before her eyes is gone.

When Mama was gone to work, Emerald knew I was afraid, so she   pretended she was her. She used to sneak into her makeup drawer when Mama was off to her second shift, and make moon faces in the old timey mirror. Emerald said Mama ought to throw it out. Get something black lacquer and new. Emerald would say this and then pucker her lips. “Mama got a lipstick mouth,” she’d say. “Perfect shape, perfect size for wearing any color she wants.” She used to stand in front of Granddaddy’s old green painted dresser and mirror, making faces that looked like her stomach hurt or like she was some kind of strange clownfish. Mama’s mouth didn’t look nothing like that. It was perfect, like the kind they used for the scratch n’ sniff stickers plastered all over my Trapper Keeper notebook, perfect lips that made every hurt feel whole again.

But I don’t know if I have Mama’s lipstick mouth, or if Emerald’s little bitty feet ever caught up with me. I don’t know why my Mama named me Ruby but my favorite, favorite color is blue. I don’t know when real girls start or stop growing. When the pain ever ends. For Melanie, for KeKe, for Amber and me, maybe Miss Dinah, too, for all of the others lurking behind the trees, crying under the stones, waiting in the river, on the side of the road in a ditch, waiting in a hotel’s deep freezer for somebody to come carry us out, every day changes but every night is the same. Nothing grows here, not even our dreams. We are visible and invisible. Just the layers of red dirt, full of time and all of it so full of our tears, the red clay looks like its crying, like the whole earth bleeding, too.

“You’re daydreaming today, better keep up, better keep it lively,” KeKe says, mimicking Miss Dinah. She wipes snot from her face with the back of her hand. She talks so funny, half the time I don’t even know what to say. She talks like Mrs. Aldridge, KeKe’s favorite teacher, the one she used to imitate for us. Said she used to stand in front of the classroom, discussing worlds they had never seen, every detail a new language, then she would weave around the neat rows of their desks, an exotic bird in constant motion. KeKe used to make us laugh so hard, but now she don’t talk much anymore, not since she realized Miss Dinah never plans for us to leave here. KeKe just holds herself now, and cries, digging at her denim jacket, her jeans, the last outfit she chose for herself. When she does talk, she tells us about her friends going to the shows, and the cute boys, and the slick girls who smiled in her face and did her wrong so wrong, and then sometimes, she will tell us about high school.

Mrs. Aldridge sounds nice. The only thing about school I liked was the first day and lunch. But when KeKe talked, she made it sound like some kind of adventure. KeKe is the only one of us to make it to high school, but she missed her prom.

“What is a prom?” Melanie once asked. For a moment, KeKe stopped crying.

“A prom is a promise,” KeKe said.

And after she described getting your hair did, the pretty dresses, the decorations, and drinking ice cream punch, she grabbed Melanie and pretended to dance. The only prom I’d seen was in that scary movie when the mean girls covered the magic one with pig blood. Watching KeKe and Melanie dance was one of the few times since Miss Dinah brought her here that I’d seen KeKe look happy. But she don’t look happy now.

She has placed snow-covered ice blossoms in the four holes in her matching denim shirt. It looks almost pretty, like her blouse was made that way on purpose. I don’t feel like arguing so I just dust myself off, even though I know my parachute pants can never get wet. I’m so sick of them. I wish I could take a knife and rip them up, too. But whatever I do to them, they just turn back the same way they were when I came here.

I can’t think of anything more embarrassing than dying in some bright red parachute pants that barely fit, dying in some too shiny polyester nylon that don’t even cover your ankles good. Even Michael Jackson wouldn’t be caught dead in that. And Melanie might be a wor’sem baby who can’t even read but at least she looked right when she went missing, even with her one little shoe. Me, I am trapped here in Miss Dinah’s world looking like Who-Done-It-and-What-For forever. But then I think of Amber. Poor thing. Can’t get more pitiful than that.

∙∙∙

Shimmy, shimmy cocoa pop

Shimmy shimmy down

Shimmy shimmy cocoa puff

Shimmy shimmy break down

“I said, who wants to play?”

“I do!” Melanie raises her hand, hopping around like a cricket. Amber, KeKe, and I just look at each other. “I do,” we say in unison but it’s not enough. Miss Dinah wants razzle and dazzle, but I feel like my voice has seeped right out of me, or frozen under the ice. I don’t feel like playing. I don’t feel like singing. I don’t feel like….

“Oooh,” Melanie says. If her eyes weren’t so big, her little hand covering her mouth, I would’ve thought I’d only imagined it, but the shock on Amber and KeKe’s faces says everything: I messed around and said that aloud.

The Jackball sun darkens and the air feels like fire.

“I don’t understand!” Miss Dinah roars. “I do everything for you. I take you from that scary darkness, I carry you in my arms and bring you to the light. I fill your world with toys and games, and none of you can still bring me laughter? None of you can show me gratitude?”

As she speaks her ropes hiss and sputter, twisting like serpents. The frayed edges shake with electric flares. Miss Dinah grabs one rope in each hand and begins whipping them in the air, lashing them out right near our feet.

Melanie screams and dives into my arms. I hold her and cover her eyes so she will not see which one of the stone ones, the stone dolls would be brought back to whatever it is Miss Dinah calls our new lives.

Miss Dinah’s right rope sizzles and sparks as she whips it across a small boulder. When I first arrived and crossed over the blueness into Miss Dinah’s light, I thought the wet stones were just part of the park. But now I know they had once been little girls, too. Miss Dinah had turned them into stones that remained wet with tears. I once saw her turn a new girl who had never learned to play jacks. She turned another because she could not keep time well. She always stumbled and missed during our hand-clapping games. Clapping when she should’ve been sliding, stomping when she should’ve been crossing her heart. I can still hear her screaming.

∙∙∙

Miss Mary Mack Mack

All dressed in black black black

With silver buttons buttons buttons

All down her back back back

The new girl was still screaming when Miss Dinah’s rope hit her and her face turned gray. Her raised palms froze mid-air and her body changed shape. All that was left was her tears on a stone. After that Miss Dinah had us clapping “Miss Mary Mack” so long, it felt like my whole hands were on fire, the skin blistered, red and sore.

To survive Miss Dinah, a girl had to have rhythm, had to have a good memory, too. Little Melanie had neither, as long as she had been beyond the blue, but Miss Dinah kept her anyway.

“All I ask is for a little affection, some cooperation,” she says.  “Joy is what we are supposed to be here! Joy!”  The sky roiled above her head, covering the Jackball sun.

"All I ask for is just a little love, a little companionship, a little ‘thank you, Miss Dinah,’ for all I’ve done for you, but you have the nerve to fix your lips to tell me what you ain’t gon’ do, how you feel? Let me tell you about feelings…”

Melanie trembles and KeKe shakes. Amber grips her knife, the blade digging into her hand. The rope writhes back and forth in the air, a spinning cyclone one moment, a whip the next. As it cracks through the air, we wait for Miss Dinah’s anger to pass, her black hole eyes an ever-changing storm. She hovers above us, her stained palms raised upward, toward the sky, their redness trembling against the black and blue.

"Fast tailed girls, now you’ve ruined my gloves.”

There is no sound, only the dry rattle of our watching breath trapped in terrified throats. Our tongues and voices turn back on ourselves. Now Melanie moans. KeKe curses. Amber bites her lip, grinds the blade into the tree’s hard flesh. Still the red hands remain outstretched, a prayer or a curse, we cannot tell. Miss Dinah lowers herself until her bare feet touch the floor. The church shoes now gone, I turn away from the dark, curled nails on her toes. Miss Dinah spins slowly, turning her head to stop and stare at each of us, her wintry eyes great gaping holes of rage, her lips frosted popsicles. She walks stiffly, her long skirt and bare feet dragging in the stiff, frozen grass with a sound that chills me, makes my bones ache. Long toenails scraping across ice.

Melanie twists out of my arms, and turns to face me, her eyes pleading. She grabs my hand. “Turn for me?” she asks. She presses her palm into mine and tries to get me to begin the game.

"Ruby," Miss Dinah says, waving my name on the bitter tip of her smile. "Join the circle or the circle will join you."

The rope spins in the air behind her, a warning. It spins then splits into two.

I rise and take my place. The ropes feel like fire in my hands but I hold onto them. The rhyme is the same as before. Miss Dinah likes the old games.

KeKe bends down to pick up the frayed ends of the ropes from the icy ground. She drops it, as if she is burned. Sucks her fingertips. “Why can’t Amber turn today?” she cries. I glance over my shoulder at Amber. She is gripping her blade with two hands, stab, stabbing at the heart of Miss Dinah’s favorite tree.

"You are wasting your time, Amber. That is not where my heart is buried, child."

The smile on Miss Dinah’s face makes me grip the ropes tighter. “Come on, KeKe,” I say. “Begin.”

“High John saw the mighty number,” she sang. “High John, High John.”

“High John saw the mighty number, High John, High John…”

Miss Dinah is a master jumper. No one can beat her jumping. We start off easy then speed the doubled ropes up. She gets real mad if we turn the ropes too slowly.

“High John was a mighty number, High Jo—”

"Enough of that wearisome ditty. Sing something else," she cries.

We are just about to turn the ropes when I hear Amber whisper behind us.

We are so astonished to hear her speak, that we let the ropes drop and fall slack. They hiss and groan as they touch the cold ground. The ropes only like heat, they hate the ice crystals prickling their frayed little bellies. The faster we turn, the hotter they get. I hate the ropes. They hiss and move like snakes and shed like them, too.

Miss Dinah whirls, turning to face Amber. “ What did you say, Amber dear?”

Miss Dinah is trying to resume her nice voice, the friendly voice that comforted me when I awoke to find myself waiting in the dark blue.

Amber takes a deep breath, her eyes intent, her mouth a straight line, unsmiling.

“I said, can we hula hoop here?”

“Hula?” Melanie is confused. We have been jumping rope and pattycaking so long that we barely remember other activities.

"Is that another way to turn, another way to jump?" Miss Dinah asks.

Suddenly, I catch KeKe’s eye and motion for her to lay the crying ropes all the way down. They hiss in protest.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yes,” with more enthusiasm. “Can we, Miss Dinah? I haven’t hula-hooped in a long, long time.”

“It’s so fun,” KeKe says, finally catching on. She sounds corny as all get out, but she fixes her face to something that looks like excitement.

Melanie hops over to us, her shoeless foot lightly skipping over the snow and ice. “I wanna hula, too! Me, me, me!” she cries, tugging on Miss Dinah’s tattered dress.

Miss Dinah narrows her eyes into sharp slits. "What does this hula look like?”

“Like a big skinny, hard donut,” Amber says. “You spin it around your waist and keep it spinning with your hips. You can spin it as fast or as slow as you want, but you can’t let it touch the ground.”

“It’s so much fun, Miss Dinah,” I say, trying to sound bright, light.

“And there are songs too!” KeKe says.

"Songs?" Miss Dinah cocks her head like a bird of prey. "Try me," she says, both a warning and an invitation.

Amber walks to the center of the playground, away from the ropes that have finally quieted down. She adjusts the ragged remains of her dress that barely cover her chest, the strips of dark-stained fabric around her waist and begins to sing. After a while, we join in.

“Hula, hula, now who think they bad?”

“I do!”

“Hula, hula, now who think they bad?”

“I do!”

“I think I’m bad ‘cause Amber’s my name. Yellow is my color don’t you worry about my lover, honey.”

“Mmmf, she think she fine.”

“Fine, fine, fine enough, fine enough to blow your mind.”

“Mmmf, she think she cool.”

“Cool, cool, cool enough, cool enough to skip your school!”

“Hula, hula, now who think she bad?”

Miss Dinah’s face, first pale with anger, now darkens and shines with pleasure. Her long teeth recede back into her mouth as do her claw-like nails. She turns back into the motherly creature that had come to the blue oneness and smiled and grinned and lied to our face, the haint that claimed us like a fairy godmother in a bad, bad dream.

"I will get this hula,” she says and rises to go. Her ugly feet levitate off the ground.

“We need five,” Amber says quickly.

"Five?” Miss Dinah lowers herself, looks at us, suspicious. “ Why can’t we share the one?”

Amber glances around uneasy. KeKe begins to stutter. I start to speak but then Melanie interrupts me. Any other time I’d be annoyed by that but not this day.

“Because I want a pink one with sparkles on it! Sparkles and stars! And Ruby,” she raises my hand. “Ruby wants a red one of course.”

“No,” I cut in. “Blue.”

“I want blue,” KeKe says, her voice soft, quiet.

Miss Dinah smiles, revealing normal teeth now. "Yellow for Amber, RED for Ruby, Blue for KeKe, pink for my Melanie, and…and gold for me!” Delighted, she shoots up into the air like a witch without a broom. She is heading straight for the Jackball sun, the bright colorful sphere that seems to embody her every mood.

“That’s it!” I say.

“That’s what?” KeKe asks.

Amber motions at the ropes. I signal agreement.

“I know where she buried her heart.” I point up to the fake swirly, swirly nebulous sky, the spinning Jackball where Miss Dinah disappears.

“We’ve got to get her ropes. Quick, KeKe, I know you hate turning, but we’ve got to hide them and keep them quiet somehow. Distract her with the new game.”

“There are three ropes now. I know just what to do,” KeKe says. “I can twist anything, I can braid anything, I just need a little help.”

We sneak up on the ropes while little Melanie distracts them and grab them by their tails. Before they hiss and holler, KeKe ties one set of their ends into a tight knot.

“Now turn!” she says.

“Turn?” Melanie asks.

“Not you. Keep watch. Amber, Ruby, help me braid this.”

The ropes jerk and yank, trying to get free. They sparkle and sting us but we keep braiding, one loop over the other loop, under the rest.

“It hurts,” Amber says. We nod, yes it does, but keep folding over and over until we are done.

Melanie hops over one of the rocks to us, the little pigtail ends of her cornrows shaking, frantic. “Miss Dinah is on her way back here. She has the hula hoops.”

“Back to your places,” I whisper. Melanie runs to Amber, then runs back to the me.

“What you doing over here?” I ask.

She looks worried. “I don’t know how to hula hoop.”

“It’s easy,” I tell her. “Just watch me.”

“What if I drop it?”

“Miss Dinah loves you.”

Melanie screws up her little chubby face. “Miss Dinah doesn’t love anyone.”

I think about this as she lands, spinning on one foot.

“Hulas, hulas,” Miss Dinah sings. She hands them out, one by one. "Now let’s get started,” she says.

We sing, each girl stepping into the center of the ring, spinning the hulas, singing of personal glories. Melanie drops her hula many times, but Miss Dinah only laughs and orders us to play again and again.

Finally, when I think I can’t sing another note anymore, when I can’t think of another boast to share, Amber steps forward to take my hoop.

“One hoop is easy. It’s really for beginners and babies,” she says, cutting her eye at Miss Dinah.

"Amber, you know I hate babies.” Miss Dinah hates babies because babies can’t survive here. What would she do with something that needed more attention than her?

“A real master hooper can spin one, two, maybe even three hulas at a time.”

Miss Dinah looks curious. "Are you a master hooper, Amber?” She is always ready for a challenge.

“I am,” Amber says and Melanie gasps. She plops her hand to cover her mouth.

“No, Amber, you’re going to drop them,” Melanie whines.

“No, I won’t, Melanie. Watch me!”  Amber wraps her bun tighter in her scrunchie and smooths down what is left of her dress. She adds my red hula and KeKe’s blue to her own yellow hula, one by one.  She begins to spin around and walk as she hoops.

“Teddy bump, teddy bump! Teddy bump, teddy bump!” she sings as she swivels her hips, the hoops spinning slowly at first, then faster and faster.

Melanie looks like she’s thrilled and terrified all at once. Her little eyes are about to pop.

“Oh, you want to try me, I see,” Miss Dinah says. She unfurls her razor sharp fingers, her flat palm up. “Give them to me.”

Amber shakes her head no. “Miss Dinah, if you think you can beat me, get your own.”

Miss Dinah throws her head back, surprised at Amber’s tone, her newfound confidence. But she loves a challenge more than anything. What is a game worth if there is no risk? Her explanation for why she mixed danger and pain with all her playground games. But Miss Dinah liked to win every game. The weeping rocks were all that was left of the girls who lost.

Before Melanie can speak, Miss Dinah shoots back up to the Jackball sun. When she returns, she has hula-hoops stacked on her arms and waist. She doesn’t even wait to land before she is spinning like a top.

“Hula, hula! ” she cries. We cheer her on. “Miss Dinah, Go Dinah, Miss Dinah, Go Dinah!” The more we cheer and clap, the faster she spins.

Miss Dinah spins so fast, she and the hulas begin to sparkle and glow.

She is really showing out now. Doing a little shimmy shimmy limbo shake while she flows.

“Go Dinah, Miss Dinah!” Amber cries, then she nods at me. “Ruby, KeKe, add the heat!”

KeKe and I have unbraided and untangled the ropes.  We crack the spinning Miss Dinah Ball like rodeo whips. Miss Dinah squeals with delight at first. “More! More!” she cries. She holds herself tightly, spinning as the hula hoops rotate around her. “Faster, faster!” The ropes respond, spinning her faster than any top we’ve ever seen.

“Oooh!” Melanie cries. We crack the ropes harder. They rip through the air like lightning bolts. Miss Dinah’s ragged, tattered gown catches afire.

“Wait!”  Miss Dinah screams, panic spoiling her smile. She tries to slow down, but she can’t.

We have her and we have her ropes.

We lasso her with the remaining hulas and the Dinah Ball hovers in the air, just a few feet above the ground, crackling and rising the angrier she gets.

"What have you done?" she screams and levitates a few feet higher, trying to escape but the hula hoops are weighing her down. She can’t go far.

“No!” I yell. “We can’t let her get to the sun. If she makes it out of here… “ I don’t finish. We all know if she does escape, we are all finished. If we lose this game, we will become wet stones, or pebbles, or worse, dust.

“Give me the ropes,” I say. KeKe looks confused. Melanie is wailing, and Amber takes out her blade. I think she understands.

She carves a deep groove into her favorite tree. I steer the Miss Dinah Ball with the ropes and use the tree to wrap the ends of the spitting, hissing ropes and anchor myself.

“You are going to have to climb up and ride the ball like a bull.”

“Like a skateboard!” Melanie says.

Surprised, now even Amber looks unnerved.

“There’s no other way out of here. You’ll have to ride her evil tail right up out through the Jackball sky. All of you.” They nod, recognition slowly registering in their eyes.

“But what about you, Ruby?” Melanie wails. I don’t answer.

“And Amber…” I say, yanking the ropes. “Be still you evil thangs.” They sputter in protest.

“Yes,” Amber says.

“When you get to the Jackball, to the sun, I need you to carve out the heart she has buried there and toss it down to me. Don’t let her get it. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Amber is crying. Melanie is crying, KeKe, all the wet stones, we are all crying. But I know what I have to do. I’ve seen a lot of movies, and in the movies folks, especially black folks, don’t always get free. I’ve been knowing for some time, but hoping all the same. Truth is, I might never see my mama or my sister again. I’d already gotten used to that, but these girls, these plain little black girls missing just like me, they were the only family I had here.

∙∙∙

The Jackball pulses, its colors flickering from bright blood reds, oranges, and yellows, to purples and blues so dark, they look like bruises. Each time Miss Dinah winces with pain, the Jackball changes colors and seems to wince, too. The Jackball is not only where Miss Dinah hid her heart, it is her heart.

I wrap the ropes even tighter around my wrists though it burns, and I scream, “Run, now!”

Miss Dinah has managed to get a few of her bony fingers loose. She’s trying to cut through the hula hoops with her nails but they are too strong. The sea-saw, the merry-go-round, the slides on the dark playground are twisting and undulating. Soon the metal will transform and they will run after the girls, after me.

KeKe takes Melanie by her hand and they take a running start before they leapfrog onto the Dinah Ball. Amber follows, slips and runs to try again.

“You better stop playing girl,” I cry, “and get on out of here!” I don’t know how much longer I can hold onto these ropes, how long before Miss Dinah manages to take over the tree.

I yank my arm in a long rippling motion, bouncing the Dinah Ball up, up into the sky, like one of those Atari games. Amber, KeKe, and Melanie are holding onto the hula hoops, clutching them like a ladder. “Now climb!” I say, “climb like they monkey bars!”

Melanie is the first to get free. She pinwheels up and out into the force that circles the Jackball sun. KeKe and Amber follow her. Amber grabs her knife.

"Noooooooo!" Miss Dinah screeches, her face contorted, her lips and mouth stretched out like a bottomless hole. "You can’t leave me! Never, never leave me! I cannot bear this place alone. ”

And there it is. Miss Dinah, a creature as powerful as she, is just as lonely as any of the children she pretended to befriend here in the in between world.

As much as I hate what she has done to us here, I wonder if Miss Dinah was ever missing. I wonder if she is not only a trapper but is trapped here, too.

Amber plunges her blade deep into the center of the Jackball sun. KeKe and Melanie sadly wave goodbye. None of us know what is on the other side of the Jackball sky or the big, wide blue. I do know I will never see them again.

Maybe out there in the blue, there is more than darkness. Maybe in its depths there are more than scary things that just want to run you down. I realize I didn’t linger long enough to find out. Miss Dinah had called to me, maybe before anyone else had a chance.

∙∙∙

When Amber tears the sky in two, and rips the Jackball sun to shreds, Miss Dinah lays in a smoldering heap, and the ropes fall asleep in my hands. The stinging stops, the burning, too. Real light, real warmth returns to the playground. I watch in wonder as ice melts for the first time in what might have been many ages. First the air is filled with the sound of exhalations. Then laughter. The music of little girls awakening from a long, cold nap. Silver and gold rainbow bubbles float in the air above our heads. Then I discover what the ropes can truly do. We each take turns, turning, each take turns, jumping, changing. I reach inside the memory of my oldest girlhood dream, of Trapper Keeper notebooks, scratch n’ sniff stickers, new back to school clothes, freshly done hair—fried, dyed and laid to the side—and Granddaddy’s old dresser painted green. I hold the rope and remember my sister Emerald and my Mama’s face, then I lay the ropes down and skip all the way home, thinking of the color blue.

—END—

ABOUT SHEREE RENÉE THOMAS

Sheree Renée Thomas is a Memphis-based short fiction writer, poet, and editor. She is the author of Sleeping Under the Tree of Life (Aqueduct Press), honored with a Publishers Weekly Starred Review and longlisted for the 2016 James Tiptree, Jr. Award, and of Shotgun Lullabies (2011), described as “a revelatory work like Jean Toomer’s Cane.” Thomas edited the Dark Matter black speculative fiction volumes that won two World Fantasy Awards. Her work appears in numerous anthologies and literary journals, including Apex Magazine, Callaloo, Jalada, Strange Horizons, and Harvard’s Transition. She is the Associate Editor of Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora  (Illinois State University, Normal).

AND SONGS DON’T END

By Osahon Ize-Iyamu

Sometimes, when I listen to my mother sing, I wish for a bit of imperfection in the tune.

I go red in the face at the thought of her. My eyes go accusing, my fists balled, and though we aren’t supposed to let her go, I hope she’d at least stumble and her never ending songs would be cut short.

Sure, she has to riiise in voice when the nightmares invade and come back stronger— the monsters never going away forever, only being pushed back by songs to the point we can survive—but her voice is still a light, strong and radiant, never flickering.

I wish she would show us the stages, that she would miss it sometimes. That her never ending voice will be cut off by a parched or itchy throat. Even the need to scratch her hair.

I wish it would be messy so it can feel real, so I can relate. Maybe because it feels so perfect, that's why Sister and I can't catch up, can't sing; leaving the next generation in questions we aren't too ready to answer. But she doesn't; she multitasks, doing every bit of the work in this house hold while we live on her voice.

And sometimes, Mother hits us.

Bares teeth. Slaps out colour from skin. Pulls out hair from follicle the way one separates muscle from bone. All because she is a fighter, and we let her release her anger on us, the anger brought from the everlasting song.

We do not speak out. My voice is as silent as the songs I cannot sing. Who are we to believe in fairytales when everyday is a living nightmare we are barely living through? Even when my throat hurts once more, as it has been doing this week, from holding so much back, I shut myself up.

Until one day, the words I thought were wishes become all too real, because her voice breaks. 

∙∙∙

My family and I’s eyes snap open, like all our ancestors have risen up with one jerking movement—panic destroying the calm.

Minutes ago, we were just on her bed, listening to her voice, letting her sing away the demons for us. Now, we watch in horror as my words come into fruition as Mama chokes on her words.

I can feel my chest contract in guilt. My body lurches up a little, on high alert. Brother starts to vibrate, burying his hands on the floor and trying to grasp at something when all that's left for him is slippery wood. 

Mama almost stops, but she corrects herself, singing again like the moment was all a dream, left in the past when time is still fresh on the situation, putting all her passion into the crumbling voice, lost to what the problem is. She’s scared about what's happening to her, I can tell from her eyes. We don't know what's going on either.

What can we do? Is there something we need  to do? I bite my nails, squeeze them between by teeth; scratch my neck, digging fingers into my purple birthmark like it’s a boil that I can pop and rupture.

Voices don't fall, break. Songs don't end. This doesn't happen in the family. Not once has it ever been heard of, not in all the histories of never-ending singers that have pleased and saved the ears of multiple generations, that a voice ends. Mother can be singing in her heart and rolling in her grave, and we will be tapping our feet, even as she turns to dust, her core still a song in smooth fashion, perfect and natural, till another in our generation takes over.

Which is why I don’t understand this.

We all join our voices with Mother’s song, the best we can do. We let our crooked notes and bad voices give balance to hers. We are practically screeching, the sound of ourselves grating eardrums, the sound old generators make as our bodies smoke and rust—voices unused, barely used, never used.

Mama looks like she wants to tell us to shut up, but she doesn't, rather putting every fiber of her being into the song. Her neck becomes veiny, tracing itself across her skin like a map with fat bumps, and then engorged with blood, like it's about to burst wide open, and her eyes close, lost in the music. It’s not a stable sound, but she's trying, trying so hard even when it's so dangerously clear she's not going to last.

I'm the first to notice when she starts to wobble, digging her hands on her bed and holding the bedsheets like they're the last thing that will save her.

“Stop!” Everyone looks at me. Papa raises a hand to slap me for interrupting, but he's nothing like Mama so he wouldn't dare, and he lowers it anyway due to the strange circumstances; so sudden, unexplained, and causing hearts to skip a beat. I direct my siblings to Mama and Brother grasps her hand, massages it. He traces prayers across her palms, eyes fixated on her the way puppies beg for food, doing his best to keep her afloat. He is her favourite.

And Songs don't end, they're not supposed to; they float eternally in the mind, in that particular chorus that goes on and on in a steady repetition; a forever lyric while time stands still.

Maybe they do. Or maybe I hate seeing her this way: losing everything, turning pale and hollow, voice being cut off by shallow breaths. Or maybe I feel guilty that my wish came true and now she's failing herself and failing us, and without her voice she's just another feral animal that has been torturing us for generations. Without her voice, I'm losing her, and everything we can justify about her behaviour, my mother, and we need her and need those reasons, so I help her.

“Stop!” I get up, run to Mama, put a hand over her mouth, but that doesn't help. We can still hear her voice, her hums. Mother has always been stubborn, feet rooted underneath the soil, and even as she's struggling, we're still holding her to these firm traditions and beliefs, forcing her voice. They all frown at me, like I'm in the wrong and this is the worst idea when they have not proved themselves capable of anything else but standing still.

Perhaps Mama needs a break. Maybe if she stops singing, even just for a moment, she can recollect herself, and then we can all forget about this moment of weakness that we don't understand and will probably never will. To allow her go on is reckless.

“Mama, please stop, you're hurting yourself.”

No one listens to me. I sigh, starting to rush downstairs to get her a bottle of water. I’m about to go but I stop in my tracks when I hear a scream, one so loud it makes my heart still.

Mama totters, stutters, words becoming senseless babbling, songs becoming mutters, spinning, eyes heavier with each word, breaths hard and painful, voice cracking, till she falls, falls, falls down her rabbit hole, slamming her head first on the wooden table near, passing out, but Father holds her before her head hits the ground.

∙∙∙

I can’t believe this. I can’t believe that Mama fell, that she stopped singing. Who will protect us from nightmares now?

I am the first to cry, let down tears that stream across my cheeks through silence as the others process the situation, faces grave. My throat closes up, eyes soggy when salt fills them. I feel choked and hurt picturing the situation where she keeps on falling in memory, and I don't want to look at her. I don't want to see her. I just want to get these emotions out in ten easy steps, and that I can control. It's better to get it over with quickly. I let out my resentment at no one listening to me, my frustrations and anger and building guilt. I play the blame game, whispering evil, hard things unto myself, then I stop, wipe my face, and check her pulse.

She lives.

She's breathing, little by little; a step of things. I laugh with bitter hope. Mama has a temperature, her head hot, burning like the fire she put my hand into one day while entering the hardest verse in a song, but we are not supposed to think about that. Will she come to? It's hard to tell and I'm not an expert.

“What do we now?” Brother’s eyes look pitiful, round and helpless. Should I take charge? Should I sing, protect my family from the monsters? Should I lead in her absence?

I don’t give it much thought. I start, rise on the first notes that fumble in my brain, screaming how does it go again? How does it go again? My vocal cords disagree with me as they spin webs and entangle themselves to shut me up, even as I try to convince to myself that I just need to riise past this incoherence, that I just need to break the surface to reach my true voice, before Papa raises a hand.

“No. We will sleep in silence,” he says, not sure if he can himself. My voice is never going to be the one chosen to continue the songs, and we all know this.

“Do we take her to the hospital?” Brother says, points at Mama’s body. She looks dead already, a corpse on the ground, though her chest heaves in silent protest. 

“I…don't know? Do any of you know a good hospital?” Papa scratches his head. When songs are our remedy, we know no other medicine. And now, we face the consequences of this; our source is floating between realms, the core of her not in a verse. He rubs his temples, and you can feel the heat of him against his burning breath, a raging fire. This must be so much stress for him. What if he has a heart attack? Two parents incapacitated seems too much to bear. I’m not sure we would live past day, reach night. Nightmares would consume us, and silence will keep us afraid.

With uncertainty, I go to sleep, but I'm alert. It's not the peaceful, no-holds-barred kind of rest, because I'm waiting for something.

∙∙∙

I arrive at the point of my dreams with weary expectation. The space is white and eerie, and I remain immovable, petrified of what happens next.

The monster comes.

Clink, clink, clink, clink.

No skin, just taut muscles wrapped around bone that shifts while it moves, as he opens himself from a zipper that appears out of nowhere, climbing out the way babies leave the womb. He stop for a minute, just stares at me. Frozen. I think: Will it stop? Will he go away? Will I be Safe?

No.

Then he lunges, feeds on me; pulls my hair from the scalp, grabs it in clumps and feeds it to me in bits, stuffing it down my throat. I struggle to scream and swallow.

There are no songs to stop this.

I leap up from bed to see my legs shaking and beads of sweat falling from my face. My throat is raw; my scalp is tender. I feel violated, and my wrists burn with red bruises all over.

The room is hot, or it could be my anxieties. I still feel chills. There is no point in sleeping. I sneak into Papa’s room and take another good look at Mama. It feels like he’s stuffing a dead body in his bed and that causes my skin to crawl. It also brings another lump to my throat. I swallow it. No tears, only solutions.

Once everyone gets up, I see I'm not the only person that did not sleep the night. Brother shakes, heavy bags pulling down his eyes while he jumps at each word. His nightmare must have been particularly brutal.

“I don't think we should take her to the hospital,” Papa announces. I can't stop my fist from curling up; it's instinct. He goes on. "The doctors--they'll ask too many questions."

“But, she…” I look at the body and stare at him. I think, let them ask. How long have we lived that we would be terminated with a single word? The doctors don't have to know the truth. A good cover story would fix that problem easily, even though we're not the best set of liars. It reminds me of how Mama is good at everything, and how we need her back. A little part of me whispers resentment, of how I'm still latching on to someone that also destroys me. My scars ache in response.

I shut it down, close the blinds, do not open myself up for that conversation. One day, we will be ready to discuss my mother's faults with nuance; the years of pain she caused and helped to take away, but we are not ready yet.

“Just give me some time to figure this out,” he sighs, rubbing his temples.

I nod at Papa, going along with his plan. If I were to be completely honest, a cover story wouldn't be enough. We would have to watch over her in the hospital, and the singing she would start if she came to would raise more questions than we could answer. 

I get that bottle of water for Mama, even though it's a bit late for that, and pry her mouth open, pouring it down her throat. It is better to keep her hydrated.

“Are we going to school?” Brother asks. I'm surprised I never thought of that question, but it's a valid point. Not that I want to go--they make me stand in front of everyone on the assembly ground, questioning why I haven’t plaited my hair. The school doesn’t care too much for lovingly combed afros, and I don’t care too much for them; the perfect relationship.

“No.” Father clasps his hand together, and I shuffle to the kitchen cupboards, bringing out milk and Bournvita to make my tea. Despite the situation, I still shoot Brother a dirty look for dipping his bread inside his tea, raising up the soggy brown mess like paper left out in the rain.

“We are going to visit your grandmother.”

This is such a good idea. We carry Mama's body into the car first, and Sister keeps watch to make sure the gateman does not see us. Grandma lives far away, so I take a bag and fill it with a bunch of puzzle pieces that can be a source of entertainment to help me forget these troubles.

On our way, my throat itches, burns, and it feels painful to swallow. It doesn’t stop, halt when I gulp down bottles of water like some greedy little thing. I have an urge, a burning sensation deep within my soul.

I want to sing.

I have never wanted it this badly, never wanted to express myself, to create with such passion. I have never felt such a forceful inspiration. What is this?

Instead, I shut up. My father tries to open the gate but causes too much of a ruckus, and the gateman wakes up from his quarters, walking closer to us. My shoulders stiffen, but relax shortly after. He won't be able to figure out what's wrong for the life of him.

“Let me help you, Sir,” he rushes, pushing Papa out of the way and letting us out, waving at Mummy while we leave, but looking confused shortly after because she does not wave back.

The gateman really ought to mind his business.

At least we stop for road ice-cream on the way. I think Daddy is trying his best to pacify us, trying to make us stay still because passiveness is all he knows, but my mind races and the car moves, so I guess I’m not the only thing that’s running.

The way Mama hit her head, she could have a concussion. She could have a brain injury.

If she sleeps forever, we will lie waking in agony. Nightmares will come and slap us in the face, spit in our hair, cut our skin, and break bones; suck out the marrow out of those bones and use them as chewing sticks.

Songs don't end.

The lack of melodies is haunting, makes my two siblings and I shift in our seats. Sister tries to doze up but a few minutes later she sits up, checking her body parts like she's wondering if she's still her, still there. 

The answer is barely. The way we live; we are empty vessels, but we make peace with it. Ours is relief and desperation, depression and anxiety.

I solve crossword puzzles, drown my burning throat with cold ice-cream and the akara I brought in a plastic container. Don't judge me. Everyone has poor food combinations.

I know we're close to Grandma’s house when we reach the bumpy roads with scattered rocks everywhere; the part the road makers know nobody is seeing so they don't have to do eye-service. My head bumps from side to side, crossword leaping from my laps, and I slam into the side of the car door.

"Be careful, o!" I scream, rubbing my head. If we're not, we'll have two problems on our hands, and then we might as well tear off our flesh and go live as muscle-born children in the nightmarish hellscape that long awaits us.

∙∙∙

We pull up at Grandma's house, located in one of the dusty corners of the street after hours of driving, and knock on the gate of the house with the steadiest foundation I’ve ever seen—surviving floods and winds in its blue-black shine longer than I've been born—basically the woman herself. We knock fast, with desperation, as we are ajebota children, not comfortable waiting outside for too long in the dirty red soil, watching men with shifty eyes glance at us, and we stare at them, back and forth, back and forth; the game of awkwardness.

Grandma lets us in, doesn't offer us anything other than the smell of jollof rice we won't be eating, because she's not that kind of person.

The old woman is lost in her tune, now only for her and no one else.

And then she sees her daughter.

Oh. Songs do end. Because Grandma screams, albeit in a melodious voice.

“Mama,” my father begs, voice scratchy. Stress will be the death of him. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know.” Grandma’s sing-song voice is low and her hand touches every part of her daughter's body, lips quivering as though she might cry. Not for too long, I hope. We need to get this sorted out.

“No,” my father screams, grabbing at his hair. This was his last hope, so his voice spirals in tone like he's descending to madness. “No, no, no, no. Ah! I thought…so, what do we now do?”

“I want to sing,” I point out, since the time seems as good as any. They all stare at me.

And then they start laughing, bellies bursting with giggles and chuckles. They wipe tears from their eyes, turning in my direction then cackling once more, almost unaware of the almost-comatose woman on the floor. What kind of people are these?

But comic relief is better than hysterics, so I take it as a victory and let them have their moment.

Then I let out my voice, and every other person stops.

I am not a joke, something to ignore. I scream my lungs out until I break every notion once thought of me, all ideas once disregarded, all nightmares breaking me. Grandma joins in with me. I make them listen, allow them to understand that yes, I can sing .

Maybe, since I can do it now, we won't need Mama to keep the nightmares away. Maybe now she can stay asleep and take her abusive good-for-nothing attitude with her. The sense of urgency goes away. I don't need her. We don't need her.

With my voice, I make a path. But the path trails off when I forget the lyrics. Grandma continues, amazed at me.

The old woman grabs my hand so tenderly it makes me believe we're going on a journey, but then twists it till I can taste fire. I swear under my breath. Her eyes pierce into my soul, judges every fiber of my being. Have I not solved the problem? Are we not free?

“You could never sing before, but now you can?” She wags a finger at me, stepping back. "You are the cause of this."

It makes a bit of sense. I grab Mama's pulse again with force, run a hand over her nose, feel that her breath grows more shallow each time my voice hits a note.

I am killing her.

“It seems,” the old woman ponders, “that when your voice pre—”

My father starts. “This did not happen to your daughter, so why’s it hap—”

Grandma glares, shuts him up, waves her hand. She’s already getting over the image of a barely breathing daughter. “You only married in and you think your voice holds weight to mine? Do you know how many generations, how many women I've seen go through this, and you think you have an opinion?”

He hangs his head low like a bent lamp, swinging from side to side, muttering breaths to the wind in a childish manner.

“It is different in each family, a separate unit on its own,” Grandma says. “Maybe because she started late.”

And then there’s silence. In the quiet, I see my family glance at me every once in a while, and they look at me differently. I hold so much power now, but what am I to do with it?

My throat croaks, and I stare at Mama. My feelings with my mother are...complicated. I've never wanted to need her, but I knew she was the only source that helped me sleep at night, helped me live.

"Teach me the lyrics to the songs," I whisper to my Grandma. There are so many, and I've heard them so many times, but now it's time to learn, time to step up, even though I am not ready for a decision yet. It's easy to feel lost in the moment, but Mama is a woman, and her life is a right she's allowed to have, even though she doesn't deserve it.

I want to sing, the song to go on and on, but in my piece: let everyone hear my break, cough, and stutter. But there is also the option in which I keep quiet, save Mama’s soul. I have not mastered things yet. At this point, I don't want to make the decision. Not yet.

And I don't know how everything goes, but there is the present, a moment in time, and that's fine with me.

∙∙∙

This is not fine with everyone else. For months, they hover around me, flies with no purpose, their only goal being to pester and disturb. In my nightmares, the monster comes from the zipper and scratches my eyes out the way I do recharge cards while I scream bloody murder, the little flakes of my pupils falling into his nails growing from muscle.

The monster adapts to what he needs each time for his torment, patterns we can't comprehend.

Everyday, I write down lyrics to the song, scribble them down because I'm scared to forget. I carve them into skin, lockers, tables, walls in school, screaming new words, combining, mixing. I start my own songs, crying, pulling out my hair each time I think not good enough, not good enough, even when I can't test my own voice. I sink to my knees and wish to make a puddle of myself that I know will only taste of disappointment.

It seems, this perfection I never wanted before, I'm striving towards it now, because I've never heard of girls with voices filled with brokenness and hope and mistakes being the heroes and saving the day. Yet, I think, I can't be her, Mama, because there has to be a difference. We must have these partitions, even though it feels so hard to linger in these inadequacies to prove something to myself.

Every day, my brother and sister pop pills in their mouth because now Western medicine is their new song now that Mama is incapacitated. And the pills go in and into their mouths in a reckless repetition, until I snatch it from their hands with a fire in my voice.

“Overdose and die na!” I yell, while their eyes sink into their skulls. They could hide away forever in this state. Until Sister comes out of her shell and snaps back.

“Oya, come and sing for us! That's what we're waiting for,” she sniffs, her hand raised out for the prescriptions, expecting to get them back.

“It’s not that simple,” I tell her, louder and louder till my eardrums ring.

“Do it,” Sister says with contempt, like if I just hovered too close that she’d reach into my throat and steal my voice. “We don’t need her. I don’t need her.”

I reduce my voice. “It's so easy because then I'd be the one who killed her. And then there'd be the burial, and all the sorry for your loss, and during that time you wouldn't be able to look at me as anything else than the murderer. Than the one to blame if things don’t go well. And maybe you, Sister, might not do that, but you ,” I throw a finger to my brother. “Where are your scars?”

“Don't act like we didn't all suffer the cost,” he spits, eyes ablaze. “This isn't some oppression olympics game you can play be—”

“Where are they?” I block his voice. I tune him out. I really want to know, when Mama was hugging him, feeding him, playing with him—where are the burn marks across his hands? Where are the memories like scars, the torment that never ends? Where are the spots on his skin, red and raw, like paper just stretched thin enough to break?

To answer, he waves a middle finger. I sigh and sit down, knowing I sound unfair and unreasonable.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” My feet stare back up at me when I look at them for answers. My body stirs in the silence. “But if I do it, you won't hate me, right?”

“I think it's time,” Sister nods. We both stare at my brother, expecting his answer.

“I…don't know, okay?” He blurts out, sweaty, panicked.

"What?" I almost hiss. It feels as though he’s ruining a moment when there's nothing sweet about this at all.

“I can't tell you how I'd feel.” He throws up his hands, flustered. “You can't expect me to just know. How would I? It's hard.”

“Then,” I say, “we wait.”

∙∙∙

We don’t wait too long. In the end, we decide to let her rest. Mostly because a life, our life , is a right we deserve to have. It will never be fair, never be Mama’s actual decision, because it's complicated but we need release.

I stand by while my grandmother sings a loving tribute to her daughter. Sister and Brother try to perch off Grandma’s song once more, but it doesn't work that way because the connection is too far gone, and one generation in our own family is clearly missing, so we stay sober. Papa wipes his forehead and puts his head in his hand for what I believe are hours till I tap him.

“We need to sort this out,” I tell him.

He nods, driving home, Mama’s body in the front seat like an inflatable doll while we all stay alert, awake. I think to alternate realities, to a man that divorced a woman once he discovered her curse, to a man named my father who saved himself, then saved us, and I imagine how peaceful it would have been to not been born, to not have the stress of a little world on your shoulders.

When we get to the house, we lay her on the sofa, her favourite spot, and I begin to sing.

And sing. Soprano to the highest pitch, the range and bellow. The song of an ending. The primal roar. And it's a joy just to use my voice again, to begin, even though Brother’s hands rest upon Mama’s pulse in the most ominous manner, his eyes widening each lyric I go, till he drops her hand, no beat there left, no steady progression.

It’s been too long for me since I felt relieved, so I laugh. I breathe. My breaths come in too fast and pretty soon I’m sucking up air like a vacuum cleaner while my body makes sounds I’ve never heard before. When I go back to silence, the room feels stuffy, and I sincerely believe that I’ve eaten up the air, that there’s nothing left for the rest of them. That I’ve always been a greedy little thing.

I know I’m crying now, I’m sobbing again as my knees buckle under me, but this time I’m not in a hurry so I don’t rush myself. My thoughts don’t pace. My body doesn’t run. Time stands still.

Then Mother vomits herself.

Slowly, she spits herself out like a rising apparition, tears herself from skin until she's nothing but muscle and bone in the nightmares, her blood pooling in her sack of discarded skin like drinks turned over in a nylon bag, feral and threatening once more.

The part where her mouth is supposed to be tears open, and we can hear her screams, her now savage voice, all songs now noise, all roles changed.

Brother vomits on the floor in response. She jumps on him first, her favourite, holding him in a tight embrace, squeezing his windpipe and forcing his undigested food substances back in, spoon feeding, trying to get back to motherly instincts.

There’s no fear here.

She stares up at me and I stumble back. My vision hits somewhere between dream and reality, drenched in blurred colours and changing lines like hallucinatory drugs. I should be afraid, but I am not. I’m not. I’m ready for her.

And she lunges at me.

But I hold myself as others run, fury as my guide as I clutch slipping straws, launching into the next verse of my new twisted song.

—END—

ABOUT OSAHON IZE-IYAMU

Osahon Ize-Iyamu lives in Nigeria, where he writes speculative fiction. He has been previously published (or has work forthcoming) in Clarkesworld and the Sword and Sonnet  anthology. He is a graduate of the 2017 Alpha Writers Workshop and you can find him on Twitter @osahon4545.

THE PERCIVALS: THE BENNETT BENEFIT

By Eboni J. Dunbar

Anna Maria Percival, widow and Diva extraordinaire, woke abruptly as the coach passed over a particularly rough patch of road. She reached instinctively for the blade under her skirt but Eleanor stayed her hand. Anna Marie looked up and found her lover laughing at her.

"And what has you so amused Mrs. Percival?" Anna Maria said, sitting up.

"Forgive me, Mrs. Percival but you are most amusing," Eleanor said. "You are ready to vanquish even the most dangerous of potholes."

"I have half a mind to take you over my knee."

"Gladly I shall go," Eleanor said her smile quirking mischievously.

Anna Maria turned away, smiling out at the afternoon scenery. She touched her hair briefly, grateful that she had spent so much time pressing it that morning. She never liked to arrive in the country with too much of her natural nappy hair; it seemed to put the English gentleman and his wife on edge, regardless of the fact that they had begged her to come.

Eleanor grabbed her hand, pulling it away from her hair and pressing her lips to it. Anna Maria watched her lover carefully kiss each of her fingertips through her gloves. Eleanor raised her gaze and they locked eyes.

"Mrs. Percival, there is Hampshire House," called the carriage man and Anna Maria sighed. Eleanor kissed her fingers again.

"Would that we had more time," Eleanor said. She let Anna Maria's hands drop.

Anna Maria looked out the window at the old stately Hampshire House. She recalled the details of Mr. Andrew Bennett's letter, remembered the florid loops of his handwriting and the fear written beneath the polite communication. She steeled herself for the task ahead of her. 

The carriage pulled into the drive and Anna Maria fixed her hat, taking another moment to check her reflection in the window. The wife had no idea why she was here, but she was most excited to have the Diva in her home.

Mrs. Andrew Bennett rushed out of her home as the carriage pulled up, followed by the butler and three well-dressed maids. Anna Maria threw a smile on as the carriage driver opened the door. He helped her step out and she opened her arms to Mrs. Bennett.

"Mrs. Bennett, I cannot tell you how happy I am to be here, your home and lands have provided the most charming scenery for our arrival," Anna Maria said, talking quickly as she kissed both of Mrs. Bennett's cheeks. The woman seemed utterly shocked but Anna Maria took it in stride, being sure to press her cross against Mrs. Bennett's bare skin.

 "Mrs. Percival, you honor me with your coming. My husband has been singing your praises for years. Oh my! That was quite a good joke don't you think? Is that gentleman your guard?" Mrs. Bennett said.

Anna Maria turned her head, looking Eleanor over as she spoke in hushed tones to the Butler. She did look fine in her dark navy suit with her long cane. Her skin was darker than Anna Maria’s was and she tended to intimidate without opening her mouth. She'd plaited her long hair into two neat braids and those she’d tied back into a low ponytail. Anna Maria smiled.

"That is my sister-in-law and traveling companion, Mrs. Alexander Percival. You have no idea how much trouble two beautiful women get into when they are on the road alone. Mrs. Percival is always glad to dress in men's clothing to keep young men from trying something untoward," Anna Maria stage whispered to Mrs. Bennett, gently patting her hand. The other woman's blue eyes went wide and she nodded enthusiastically. Here was a woman who would make this whole thing easy, bright enough to take her hints but not so bright as to look for deeper meaning.

"I can only imagine," Mrs. Bennett said. "Is Mr. Alexander Percival related to your James Percival?"

"Oh yes, brothers. Sadly, both our husbands have returned to the Lord," Anna Maria said, turning Mrs. Bennett toward the house. They walked slowly, their feet crunching over the pebbles of the drive.

"How truly sad! It must be such a hardship for you," Mrs. Bennett said. Anna Maria tightened her grip on Mrs. Bennett’s hand when the other woman tried to pull away.

"If we did not have each other it might be, but Eleanor is such a comfort to me. Forgive me." Anna Maria dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief while looking around at the large foyer, noting the wide-open curtains and the light pervading the room.  

"Oh no, of course, my dear. We hope you will enjoy your stay with us. Will you take tea or would you like to go up to bed and rest?"

"Oh I would love some tea after the long ride. Will I meet Mr. Bennett this afternoon or this evening at dinner?" Anna Maria said, allowing Mrs. Bennett to lead her into her sitting area. Mrs. Bennett waved to one of the maids who disappeared.

"He's in his study, would you mind waiting a moment and I'll see if I can get him to join us. Parker? Go and fetch Mr. Bennett,” Mrs. Bennett said indicating another maid who had followed them into the sitting area. “My poor husband can be so tied to his--"

She stopped as the man in question strutted into the room.

Anna Maria straightened her back, holding out her hand for Mr. Andrew Bennett to take. He took it and kissed the back of her hand. She smiled sweetly at him as he stood back to his full height, noting the way he surveyed her form and figure. She hoped Mrs. Bennett didn’t notice. Eleanor slipped into the room, moving to stand behind Anna Maria. Mr. Bennett’s eyes flicked over to Eleanor for a moment before he returned his attention to Anna Maria.

“Darling, Mrs. James Percival and Mrs. Alexander Percival,” Mrs. Bennett said.

"Mrs. Percivals, such a pleasure," Mr. Bennett said.

"The pleasure is entirely ours, Mr. Bennett," Anna Maria said.

"Darling?" Mr. Bennett said, dropping her hands. "Would you mind fetching the program we had made up for this evening? I'm sure Mrs. Percival would like to see it."

"Oh of course, Darling! What a splendid idea. Parker—“Mrs. Bennett said, turning again to the maid.

“Darling,” Mr. Bennett’s voice was sharp and Anna Maria flinched at the tone. “I would rather you bring it.”

        Mrs. Bennett smiled just as warmly as she had been though Anna Maria noticed the slight glistening in her eyes. She gave a quick nod to her husband and then to both Mrs. Percivals.

“Will you excuse me a moment?" Mrs. Bennett said before she left the room.

"She's a lovely woman," Anna Maria said, sitting down. Mr. Bennett sat down on the sofa across from her, his back perfectly straight. He smiled but it was tight and spare. "Now, Mr. Bennett, tell me about your brother. Henry I believe?"

"Yes, Henry Bennett. You must understand, Mrs. Percival, if I had not known your husband personally I would not believe any of this," Mr. Bennett said.

"Of course, Mr. Bennett. I understand completely," Anna Maria said though internally she sighed. "Please tell us what happened."

Mr. Bennett looked up at Eleanor. "You’re involved in this…family business too?"

Eleanor bowed her head slightly but said nothing. He stared at her for a moment longer before he returned his attention to Anna Maria. "Fourteen days ago, my brother and I went for a ride in the forest. I'll admit to behaving badly, we were racing and I had been losing and I bet him that he could not beat me through a particularly dark stretch of wood. It was rather late but I thought… I've never heard of the sort of monsters James used to speak of here. It never occurred to me—"

"It rarely does," Anna Maria said with a smile. "Please continue."

"Yes, well. I bet him that he couldn't beat me and of course we took off racing. I beat him through the wood, coming out into a clearing at the other side, he never did. He didn’t return to our home that evening. In the morning I took a few men to search for him, and we found him in a heap in the center of the wood. He was... We were certain we would lose him. The doctors didn't believe he would survive the day, let alone the night. However, as darkness approached his strength increased and it became clear he wasn't going to pass on. For three days he seemed to get worse during the day and improve in the night. Then on the fourth night he came down to dinner, looking a bit pale but otherwise as though there was nothing wrong. He asked for meat and though we advised him to take it easy he ate it. He was almost immediately sick and went back to bed. The following morning, our family dog was found mauled. That was when I wrote you. I knew the signs. James always made sure his friends did," Mr. Bennett said.

Anna Maria turned her head so that she could look up at Eleanor. To the average person she looked utterly still, her back straight but not rigid, her hands resting behind her back. Only Anna Maria could see the change in her lover, the tension in her bicep, the way her eyes surveyed the man before them, searching for signs that he had become a familiar of the creature that had once been his brother. Then slowly she met Anna Maria's eyes. Anna Maria turned back to Mr. Bennett.

"We'll know soon enough if he is changed. Does he take his meals with you?" Anna Maria asked.

"Oh no. He always has some excuse or another about why but he shows up for after dinner socializing. He did seem interested in hearing you sing," Mr. Bennett said.

"He won't be able to resist the music. You can leave the whole thing to us. But I want you to understand there is only one option if he has changed," Anna Maria said.

Mr. Bennett's already thin lips thinned further but he nodded. "'Death is the only answer', that's what James said. I know what you'll have to do and I am prepared for it."

Anna Maria smiled, standing as Mrs. Bennett and the maid returned. She kindly oh-ed and ah-ed over the program, noting that Mrs. Bennett had even included the date, June Twelfth, Nineteen Hundred, as though she thought it would be some sort of keepsake. Mrs. Bennett's excitement was almost charming. Anna Maria sipped tea while asking Mrs. Bennett the sort of inane questions that bored country gentleman's wives were used to. When Anna Maria could take no more of it, she very sweetly asked about their rooms.

"Of course, you must be exhausted from your journey," Mrs. Bennett said, getting up and leading them through the house.

Anna Maria was not surprised to discover that she had been given one of the smaller guest rooms. At least she had the benefit of Eleanor in the room next door. Anna Maria quickly dismissed the maid Mrs. Bennett had offered her, ignoring the woman’s wide eyes and shocked expression. She meant no offense, but she did need privacy.

Anna Maria removed her own clothes from her case, hanging them easily while she waited. She took out her second cross, the less austere one that she genuinely preferred, then her kit filled with all the things she would need: holy water, garlic essence, and wooden stakes. Finally, she lifted her photograph of her husband from the case and a second one of the four of them, taken shortly before the boys had died. James and Alexander Percival had been extremely close as children and as hunters even closer. Anna Maria had fallen in love with James the instant he set foot in the little pub in London where she'd been singing. She'd fallen in love with Alexander shortly there after. Eleanor had come to them by chance and Alexander had made things easy by marrying her and bringing her more firmly into their complicated life.

Anna Maria ran her fingertips over her three loves before she set the photograph down. Just outside the door, she heard the floor creak and waited to see who it was.

Eleanor didn't knock, she simply slipped inside, closing and locking the door behind her. She turned and took Anna Maria in, her eyes going to the photograph and then back up to Anna Maria's face.

"Alright?"

"Better now," Anna Maria said. Eleanor smiled and crossed the room, sitting down at the little vanity. "What did you find?"

"Parker is quite chatty once you get her going. The maids haven't been allowed to clean his rooms since he's been ill. He's in there all day, with particular orders not to be disturbed. His valet has been dismissed. Big brother has been keeping him on the payroll just in case," Eleanor said, her American accent centering Anna Maria. She could not forget that she was the Diva tonight; she needed to mind her manners and speak in a way acceptable to the guests of the Bennetts. But Eleanor's accent, short, clipped, and full of slang, made her relax.

"Any debts for either of the Bennett boys?" she asked, moving on to her other gowns. “New mistresses?”

"Do you want a hand?" Eleanor asked, pulling out a cigarette.

"No, love, but if you're going to smoke do it at the window," Anna Maria said.

Eleanor stood, opening the window and holding her cigarette out of it. She lit it and took a quick drag before holding it out again. "Nothing as far as Parker knew. I'll have a look in big brother's documents this evening during dinner."

"Don't miss your meal. It can wait until the entertainment."

"You won't want me watching you? They may not let me sit at the table but I can at least be nearby."

"No, love. He's new made and hasn't had any interaction with his maker. He should be more than easy to handle. I'd rather you focus on whether we have two Bennetts to remove from the household or only one. If I can help it, we'll manage everything tonight and be able to enjoy a country holiday."

"You make it sound easy." Eleanor took another drag of her cigarette and then put it out, putting the unused end back in her jacket.

"Everything is easy with you by my side," Anna Maria said with a smile. Eleanor rolled her eyes but crossed the room, pulling Anna Maria into the softest, sweetest of kisses.

"Get a little sleep, my heart," Eleanor said.

"As you wish," Anna Maria said.

She took off her travel gown and lay down on top of the bedclothes. She listened for a while to the sound of Eleanor hanging up her other gowns. Then she slept.

∙∙∙

When the dinner bell rang, Anna Maria made her way down the long staircase carefully. The front door was opened wide and several of the guests were standing just inside, having their coats and accessories taken. She felt attention shift to her and smiled warmly. Mrs. Bennett turned to look up at her.

"Oh here she is! The diva Percival," Mrs. Bennett said clapping her hands. Some of the guests played along giving light claps here and there but many of the men simply stared.

"It is an honor for me to meet you," Anna Maria said with a slight curtsey.

She allowed Mrs. Bennett to introduce her to each of the couples first and then the oddly large group of men that made up the rest of the party. She did her best to put names to faces but knew that she would struggle with it by the end of the evening. Names and faces were Eleanor's purview. They went into dinner when Mr. Bennett arrived. He took his wife on his arm and led her into the table. One of the men took Anna Maria by the arm and led her in, sitting her closer to Mrs. Bennett, and she noted it for the slight it was. For all the woman’s kind words she hadn’t seated Anna Maria in the place of honor beside her husband.

"You have been singing for many years, Mrs. Percival?" One of the wives asked as the first course came in.

"Oh yes, since I was a girl. I did not reach my true heights until I met my husband," Anna Maria said.

"Mrs. Percival has been a widow these last, is it two years, dear?" Mrs. Bennett said and the men all seemed to sit up straighter. She knew what they wanted of course, the perfect mistress. Pretty, charming, exotic, and with a skill that was not inconvenient. In fact, it might allow the perfect excuse for seeing her.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Percival," said one of the other wives. "I do not know what I would do without my dear Dickinson."

"Spend far too much money," Mr. Dickinson said, to a resounding laugh from the group.

"Was your husband from Africa, Mrs. Percival?" A Captain asked.

"No, my husband was from England. Just as I am," Anna Maria said.

"James Percival attended Harden Academy with me as a boy. Then we both attended Oxford," Mr. Bennett added and Anna Maria sighed. Harden Academy would tell the Captain all he needed to know about James, that he was moneyed and that his skin was the acceptable color and that his family were of a certain class. "His brother Alexander did as well."

"And do you live now with Mr. Alexander Percival?" Mrs. Dickinson asked.

"No. My poor brother-in-law has also passed. He followed my James no more than six months later," Anna Maria said. She could feel the mood heading south.

"Was Mr. Percival a musical man?" One of the other wives asked. Both Anna Maria and Mr. Bennett laughed.

"My James had no talent for music," Anna Maria said.

"He tried the violin at school and broke it merely by touching it," Mr. Bennett added. "And we all begged him not to sing."

"No, my love was not a musician but he loved hunting. It was his favorite past time."

"Was he any good?" Bachelor A said with a roguish smile. "I happen to be quite the hunter myself."

"They were excellent, both James and Alexander. Every kill they attempted they completed. Every one. That, I think, was the problem. James did not back down from a fight," Anna Maria said.

"Is that how they died?" One of the other soldiers asked. Anna Maria nodded.

James had found a small nest of creatures when he'd been hunting alone. Instead of coming home and collecting them, getting all the gear he would need and preparing, he had gone in alone with only a few stakes and a small amount of Holy water. His body had been left utterly broken and barely recognizable. That had set Alexander off. There had been no convincing him to slow down or let himself be helped. He'd found what remained of the nest and he'd destroyed it, dying in the process.

"Hunting accidents," Anna Maria said.

"I am so looking forward to the singing this evening, Mrs. Percival. Music is such a relief," Mrs. Bennett said. She dabbed at her chest with her handkerchief nervously, her discomfort with the conversation clear.

Anna Maria was grateful for the distraction. They spent the remainder of the meal talking about less sensitive subjects, each of the Bachelors trying his hand at impressing her. They were at least good for a laugh.

The ladies adjourned to the drawing room after dessert and Eleanor appeared with a cup of special tea for Anna Maria. She noted the way the women got silent at Eleanor’s entrance and picked up again when she had gone. The group all but ignored Anna Maria now, preferring their polite society and she was happy to prepare herself for what was to come.

Before long, the gentlemen joined them, along with a few other guests who had been unable to join them for dinner. Anna Maria did her best to make small talk and wait for Mr. Henry Bennett but he seemed to want to thwart her intentions to meet him before the performance. She decided to make things easier on herself.

She went to the piano that Mr. And Mrs. Bennett kept, a beautiful instrument that went unused but was well tended. She played a few notes, enough to get the room’s attention before she stood again. Mr. Bennett cleared his throat.

“Dear friends, thank you for joining us this evening,” He said. “We are delighted to present to you, the Diva Percival.”

"Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you very much for having me here, and for the wonderful conversation. Mrs. Bennet has been kind enough to prepare programs for this evening but if you don’t mind, I shall sing a few different songs for you. These are not the most popular but they are my specialty. You may continue your conversations though I will try to mesmerize you. To draw your silence. Are we up for the challenge?"

There was a resounding applause and Anna Maria sat again. All the talk about James made her miss him. She could have had Eleanor or Alexander play if he were still alive, while James scoured the house for Henry. She played the first few notes without thinking and let her voice take up the familiar words:

Here lies my friend

Here lies my keeper

Here lies my heart

Death takes my man

And if I'm lucky

He won't rise

For every man gets only one

Life

But oh the demon makes a deal

My heart he says that he can heal

All it takes is just one touch

And my love may blush again

But he no friend

With his darkness

He begins again

To take my heart

To twist and break

His soul he'll take

And leave me lonely again

She repeated the words a second time and glanced up at the group. She could see a few horrified expressions but mostly they were enraptured. She quickly switched songs:

Once the old man in the dark

Once the night was cold

Once you had your soul

Now you have lost control

Seeking what was lost but

At what cost

You must take

You must take

You must take

Where is your hope now

This life you lead

Is not a life

It's a balance on the knife

It's a chance

It’s a choice

It’s your song

This is your voice.

At what cost?

At what cost?

She played for a few minutes, letting her voice rest but feeling her spell falling among the group. Eyes had glazed over and people were truly entranced. If she stopped playing she would hear a pin drop. She switched songs, picking up the tempo and letting the music take her to its wild and dangerous place. It was time to call the creatures from their hiding places.

Come

Dark ones, come

Here I sing this song to you

Here is such a gift

Come

Dark ones, come

See the blood

Watch it thrum

Through their veins,

In your name

Come and feast

I sing this song to you

The door opened with a heavy creak. She continued to play and sing but she got her first glimpse of Henry Bennett. He was utterly pale. His dark eyes seemed even darker with the magic drawing him into the room. He staggered forward, as though something were trying to stop him. She continued to play until he stood beside the piano. She stopped playing, standing up and putting the piano bench between herself and Henry, but did not stop singing:

Here you are

I can save you

Now you are

Here with me

So much you given

To live again

Take your taste

Feast my friend

She turned her head, allowing him to see her exposed neck. He licked his lips and surged forward.

Anna Maria pushed the piano bench into Henry’s knees, grateful she had forgone her corset though cursing her skirts. Henry landed with a loud bang on the piano keys and Anna Maria pulled the stake she kept at her bosom out of her dress. Henry stood up, turning his monstrous face on her. His long fangs hung out and he hissed at her, lunging again.

She backed up, ducking to just miss his taloned hands and forcing herself to jump over the guests on the sofa. She pulled her skirt up for better ease of movement and whatever remained of the human man inside of Henry Bennett stopped, entranced by her ankles. Or perhaps by the five stake-carrying garter she wore on her upper thigh.

She kicked him then, under his jaw, sending him back into one of the gentleman who fell over like a rag doll. He stood and snarled, leaping for her.

Anna Maria let his momentum plunge her stake into his heart. He flailed wildly. Anna Maria pushed him backward so that he wasn't on top of her. Henry fell to his knees, still shaking.

She watched, as he died the second time, the last of this false life leaving him. She crossed herself and then pulled out her stake. "Poor Henry."

"Poor Henry indeed," Mrs. Dickinson said.

Anna Maria stood up straight as Mrs. Dickinson stood from where she had been sitting, seemingly entranced. She crossed the room and Anna Maria noticed that she moved differently now, every movement sharp and unnatural. Mrs. Dickinson smiled.

"It was worth it, all this effort, just to hear you sing. Your husband was right," she reached out and ran her fingers across Anna Maria's cheek. "You are extraordinary."

Anna Maria surged forward, punching at Mrs. Dickinson's face but missing. Mrs. Dickinson lifted her knee, knocking all the wind out of her. Anna Maria gasped as Mrs. Dickinson threw her out the window.

∙∙∙

Anna Maria scrambled across the lawn, trying to catch her breath and put some distance between herself and Mrs. Dickinson. Soon the magic would work itself out, the partygoers would awaken and they would find Henry's body and the mess from their fighting. She hazarded a glance over her shoulder and watched as Mrs. Dickinson jumped down from the window.

Anna Maria clambered to her knees and then finally stood, stumbling forward for the maze of the Bennett's garden. She pulled out another stake from her garter and wrapped her cross around her fist. If she got another shot she needed all the power she could muster. Anna Maria prayed that Eleanor was safe wherever she was.

"Now Mrs. Percival, is this anyway to treat a fan of your work?" Mrs. Dickinson called. "Don't you want me to tell you about how your husband died?"

Anna Maria froze. She was lying. Alexander had killed the nest that had killed James. There was no way this woman was part of it.

"Poor Alexander, thought I was just a poor woman, being bled by the house. He was so naive. I disabused him of that notion," Mrs. Dickinson said. "And then I decided I was tired of hearing about all of these Percivals. Percival this, Percival that. You'd think we were in King Arthur's court."

Anna Maria moved again, as the voice was getting closer. She was being too noisy. If she wasn't careful, the demon beast would find her. She took a deep breath, trying to quiet herself. She was a huntress. She could handle this.

"You and yours took my family from me. So I decided to destroy yours. If it makes you feel any better, your sister-in-law was quite delicious," Mrs. Dickinson said, her voice becoming slightly slurred and more difficult to understand.

If that was true, if Eleanor was dead... Anna Maria stood up straight and made her way to where she could hear Mrs. Dickinson rooting around.

The creatures face had changed, her eyes glowing red and her fangs so long she could not properly close her mouth. Her smile was a vicious snarl.

"There you are. Decided you’re ready to die?" Mrs. Dickinson said.

"Decided that you must be," Anna Maria said letting her polite accent fall. "I mean to end you."

"Let's see how that goes."

They ran at each other.

Talons tangled with stake and Anna Maria thrust her sanctified cross into the creature’s cheek. Mrs. Dickinson screamed and Anna Maria hit her again, knocking her to her knees. But the creature would not be brought down so easily. Mrs. Dickinson swept out her arm, knocking Anna Maria onto her back.

Mrs. Dickinson moved too quickly for Anna Maria to get free. The creature straddled her hips and placed one taloned hand around Anna Maria's throat. Anna Maria tried to punch and scratch the creature. She cackled in delight.

Anna Maria's vision blurred, the creature’s face going ragged around the edge. Her hands tried to grasp at something, any small thing that might save her now.

You are a Diva, are you not? James' voice in her mind was clear, crisp, and amused. He'd been training her harder than he ever had and if he'd been the enemy he would have killed her. Your weapon is your voice. If you can use it, do.

Anna Maria reached up, circling the cross at her wrist to smack the creature in the mouth and burning her tongue. Mrs. Dickinson shrieked, releasing Anna Maria's neck. She allowed herself two big breathes and then she sang, a single piercing note. The creature pulled away, trying to cover her ears. Anna Maria took a few more breaths and repeated the note, turning over onto her hands and knees and pulling the last of her stakes from her garter.

Anna Maria stood on unsteady legs. Mrs. Dickinson changed back into the kind woman, her face average and unremarkable, if battered and bruised.

"Please...Please...we can make an agreement. We can both live happily. We could both live forever," Mrs. Dickinson suggested.

"God forgive me, I wouldn't make a deal with you with your soul," Anna Maria said. She kicked the woman onto her back and staked her through.

She quietly watched the woman, her second death less violent than Henry’s. It was as though the false life had simply left her between one breath and the next. Anna Maria hauled herself up, standing on shaking legs. Gravel crunched behind her and she raised her head, body tensing. Eleanor was running through the garden and Anna Maria felt her knees give at the sight of her lover crossing the garden. She was bleeding from her head but otherwise looked unharmed.

Eleanor fell to her knees, grabbing Anna Maria's face in her hands. Anna Maria winced slightly and Eleanor loosened her grip. "Alright? You're killing me, heart, say something."

"You're not dead," Anna Maria said.

"Of course I'm not. You don't think you'd feel if I was? Like with the boys?" Eleanor said.

Anna Maria sobbed. She wrapped her arms around Eleanor and held her tight. It took a few minutes before she was willing to release her but they both knew they had business to attend to, before the magic faded in the room. Eleanor stood first, drawing up Anna Maria with her. Together they made their way back to the house and made quick work of both Henry Bennett and Mrs. Dickinson, Eleanor staying in the garden to supervise the burning of their bodies. Anna Maria changed her gown and applied a healthy amount of makeup.

∙∙∙

By the time the magic of her songs had dissipated, Anna Maria was back at the piano and singing the final notes of a less powerful song. The group clapped as though they had enjoyed a full performance and Anna Maria stood, bowing to the group. The murmuring began as soon as people saw her injuries.

"Mrs. Percival! What has happened to your face?" Mrs. Bennett said, jumping up from her seat. Mr. Bennett moved forward as well, blocking the room from seeing her.

"Only an allergy I think Mrs. Bennett," Anna Maria said loudly enough for the room to hear. Then she lowered her voice. "It's done."

"What's done? Darling?" Mrs. Bennett said. He shushed her but his focus was on Anna Maria.

"And?"

"He's run off with Mrs. Dickinson. I saw them leave the gallery while everyone was focused on the music," Anna Maria said. Mr. Bennett nodded as Mrs. Bennett's eyes bulged.

"I'll talk to him," Mr. Bennett said. He turned and walked over to Mr. Dickinson, stiffer than he had been before. He pulled the other man out of the room. Anna Maria turned to Mrs. Bennett.

"I think I should go upstairs, don't you? Would you ask for someone to bring up some cold water and some meat?"

Mrs. Bennett nodded quickly and Anna Maria made her way out of the gallery, letting the Bennetts handle the aftermath.

They stayed for three days, Anna Maria giving another two performances despite Mrs. Bennett assuring her it wasn't necessary. She always felt an obligation to leave people with a happy song. Particularly those that had suffered loss in some way. Mr. Dickinson didn't attend any of the other performances, though she couldn't blame him.

On the morning of their departure, Mr. Bennett kissed her hand and then he held it firmly. "Thank you for all that you’ve done."

"I am sorry that you needed us but I am glad that you had someone to call," Anna Maria said.

"James would have been very proud of you," he said. Then he took Eleanor's hand and shook it. "And Alexander of you."

"Thank you," Eleanor said quietly.

Mrs. Bennett was polite but cool in her send off, her enthusiasm having waned after the first night. Anna Maria smiled warmly and hoped she’d never have to see them again. Then they climbed into the carriage and started on their long journey back to Grosvenor Square, Anna Maria curled against Eleanor's side. She needed all the rest she could muster.

Who knew what next adventure awaited them in London?

—END—

ABOUT EBONI J. DUNBAR

Eboni J. Dunbar is a queer, black woman who writes queer and black speculative fiction. She resides in the San Francisco Bay Area with her partner. She received her BA from Macalester College in English and her MFA in Creative Writing from Mills College. She writes short stories, novelettes, novels, and screenplays. Eboni loves to read SFF with a particular focus on black, queer characters and authors. She also enjoys reading romance, YA, and some poetry. She can sometimes be found on twitter at @sugoionna87 .

SISTER ROSETTA THARPE AND MEMPHIS MINNIE SING THE STUMPS DOWN GOOD

By LaShawn M. Wanak

CONTENT WARNING: sexual assault, death of a child

Rosetta knelt to look at the stump in the corner of her client's bedroom. It had the likeness of a ten-year-old boy: four feet tall, dressed in an oversized shirt and suspenders. And its features were flawless, from the newsboy's cap cocked on its tight curls, to its pupil-less eyes fringed with long eyelashes. The only oddity was that stump’s hands were unformed, shapeless blobs. It was easy to believe that a sculptor had chiseled a boy out of wood and had stepped away just before finishing its hands.

Rosetta sucked in her breath through her cloth face mask. The SPC hadn't told her that her first stump extermination would look like a child.

"Why did it take you so long to report this?" She asked the woman who rented the apartment.

"Went to visit my sister in St. Louis last week. When we got back, there it was." The bedroom door opened, revealing a gaggle of gawking kids. The woman shooed them back, then frowned at the white man maneuvering a medium-sized crate into the bedroom. She sidled up to Rosetta and whispered, "He gotta be here too?"

"It’s all right; he's my handler. Set the vacuum up over there, Marty."

Marty Houchen winked a blue eye at the woman. "I do all the heavy lifting, ma'am. Sister Tharpe got the harder job." Rosetta could tell he was smiling behind his own face mask.

The woman hmphed. Her mask, the cheap, paper sort usually sold at the SPC, dangled from her neck above her plain cotton-blue maid uniform. It made Rosetta feel overdressed in her faux fur and white kid gloves. To cover up the awkwardness, Rosetta went to look out the window.

The woman's apartment was on the tenth floor of the Ida Wells Projects, the newest housing development touted as affordable for those with low incomes. The woman's apartment was sparse, but everything was neat and clean, albeit it smelled of oxtail stew and shoe polish. It was also stifling hot in the apartment. Sheets of thick, opaque filters lined most of the windows in the main rooms. In the bedroom, there were no filters, but the woman had hung up bedsheets across the windows--a cheaper alternative.

If the woman had just returned from a trip, she probably had opened the window without thinking to let in the cold, fresh, February air. Just enough for a spore to float in and take root.

"What's this made outta of anyway?" Rosetta turned around to see the woman prodding the stump's cheek with her finger. "Don't feel like wood. Feels spongy."

"Don't do that!" Rosetta rushed over to grab the woman's wrists. The slight indent the woman made in the stump's cheek was already molding itself back into shape. Rosetta glanced down to the stump's formless hands. Was that the hint of fingers? "Marty, hurry!"

"I'm working as fast as I can."

Still holding the woman by her wrist, Rosetta steered her into the kitchenette and scrubbed her hands with Ivory soap. "You need to be careful. Stumps can grow anywhere. These things can start growing on you and you don't even know it. You might think it's a boil or a pimple between your shoulder blades, behind your knee. If it bursts, you're as good as dead."

"Just wanted to see why they call 'em stumps," The woman grumbled. "They don't feel like wood."

"They're not wood. And they're not people. No matter how much they look like them. You should wear your face mask at all times. Or at least put up filters on your windows in your bedroom."

The woman glanced at her children piled on the sofa. "Those window filters cost the same as my rent. It takes ages to save up for them. And the face masks don't do nothing. My kids tear through them before they even get out the door. How am I supposed to keep this place from getting infected if I can't even buy what I need?"

Rosetta gave the answer that she had been trained to give. "Go talk to the SPC. They can work something out."

The woman pursed her lips but didn't say anything.

Marty emerged from the bedroom. "Get ready, Rosetta. I'm almost done."

Rosetta went back into the bedroom and reached into the opened crate. She pulled out her guitar case, laid it on the bed, took a deep breath to prepare herself, and opened it. Her Gibson L-5 greeted her with its tan finish and gold-plated turning keys. She slipped the strap over her head and its weight settled, heavy and comforting like a baby in a sling.

It had been almost a year and a half since she played it. People used to make fun of it, saying it was nothing but a glorified mandolin, but Rosetta never took it as an insult. She strummed a G-chord, and she was no longer in the woman's apartment, but in a crowded church somewhere in Tennessee. The pounding of feet on the wooden floorboards, the wafting of cardboard fans with pictures of funeral directors advertising their services, the heat and the sweat in the air, voices raised in song while hands and tambourines beat out rhythm...

…And Momma's comforting presence as she swayed and plucked at her mandolin.

A twinge of emotion in her chest deepened into full-on heartache.

Rosetta lifted the guitar off her and put it back in the case. Marty glanced at her, but he didn't say anything.  

"What are you doing?" The woman asked. Rosetta quickly closed the case, but the woman had directed her question to Marty as he slipped a thick, transparent bag over the stump's head.

"This is so that no spores get out during the extermination." He adjusted the bag so that it fully covered the stump and secured the bottom with weighted lead rings. "There has to be no gaps or else one spore slips through and-- kekkkkk!" He drew a finger across his neck.

"Stop scaring her, Marty."

"Just stating the facts. Better get your mask on."

Rosetta hated this part. From the crate, she took out a larger mask with thick, plastic goggles and a long hose dangling from the circular breathing plate, which contained a specialized filter made of the same material as the filters in the woman's windows. Rosetta slipped the mask over her head and adjusted the straps so it fit snugly around the back of her head and ears. Marty took the end of the hose and attached it to another one that was connected on top of the stump bag.

"All set?"

"Yeah," Rosetta said, hating how mask stripped her voice of depth and timbre, rendering it flat and lifeless. Nothing for it but to do what she was supposed to do. She closed her eyes and began to sing.

"Up above my head, I hear music in the air. Up above my-- "

A muffled whump  came from the bag. Marty flapped his hands at Rosetta to stop. The bag billowed briefly, then slumped to the floor as if empty. Marty flicked a switch, and the vacuum inside the crate began sucking the remnants of the stump, shimmering particles larger than dust.

"Well, I'll be goddamned," the woman declared.

"God doesn' damn anybody," Rosetta said as she pulled off the mask. She felt tired, very tired, and this was just her first extermination. It wasn't real singing, though. Anything that lasted only a few seconds long couldn't be considered real singing.

Which was fine. She didn't deserve to do any real singing anyway.

∙∙∙

Minnie hated the SPC.

The walls were too white. The lights were too bright. The air was too dry. The constant whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the air purifiers, filtering out every ounce of dust in the air, was too damn loud. Every time Minnie came here with her handler to drop off her quota of stump dust, the boogers in her nose turned to hard pebbles and set her head to throbbing. The SPC was a miserable, stupid place.

"I have the numbers from what you’ve brought in," The weighing attendant said, referring to her clipboard. It’s only forty percent of your quota."

"It's been rough, ya know?"

The weighing attendant frowned. Her eyebrows had been penciled in a thick, high arch, as if perpetually astonished at Minnie's presence in the SPC. "It also says here your handler has requested to be transferred to another department. Says you're too 'belligerent and uncooperative to work with', and you show up late to your exterminations--when you bother to show up at all. That's the third handler now who refuses to work with you."

Minnie gave a shrug. She hadn't even bothered to learn his name.

"Now Lizzie," the attendant said, drawing out the 'z' in a condescending buzz. "Being an exterminator is a very rare calling. There are many people out there who would love to have that same ability as you. We've already had several exterminators pulled to help at the warfront in Europe. That brings the total licensed exterminators in Chicago down to six." The eyebrows rose until they nearly disappeared into the attendant's red hair, pinned in a victory roll, the latest fad in the white folks’ world. "You don't want Chicago to be quarantined just like New York, do you, Lizzie?"

Minnie didn't answer. As far as she was concerned, the SPC quarantined her the day they showed up on her doorstep.

Nonplussed, the attendant referred to her clipboard. "Now, I do have some good news. A new exterminator just started working today. Between you and her, you should be able to contain the stumps in the Bronzeville district, which current count is… 23 as of today. If you continue to not meet your quota," here she gave Minnie a stern look, "we'll have to find some other way for you to serve in Stump Prevention Control." It was always "Stump Prevention Control" with these people, never the "SPC". Like them uppity folks who go around insisting you call them Mister so-and-such, Esquire. Like the attendant insisting on always calling her Lizzie.

"Just gimme my pay."

The attendant sighed and handed Minnie twenty dollars. "We are assigning another handler to you. It will take several days to find someone who can handle your… temperament."

Fuck you and your eyebrows. Minnie picked up her guitar case and left.

A team of men in hazmat suits brushed past Minnie as they headed down the hall to the elevators that would take them to the lower levels. All of them were white. Her handlers had all been white. The weighing attendants, the office workers, everyone was white. The SPC sure liked their white folk, which was funny, seeing that the building itself was located on the south side, where all the black folk had ended up.

When she first started, Minnie had tried to get Lawler as her handler--he had been a lousy recording manager, but he was great with his hands, inside the bedroom and out. The SPC said that handlers had to undergo a vigorous one-year training to learn how to manage the machines, the vacuums, the pumps, the brushes, etcetera. Minnie then asked why she even needed a handler. Seemed like she could learn to do all the work herself without some white man always watching her, making her nervous. The SPC said her job was to only focus on exterminating the stumps. Her voice was too important to exert herself on manual labor. Only handlers with the appropriate training could handle the equipment due to the extreme toxicity of the stumps.

In other words: no niggers need apply.

Minnie reached the large lobby. Posters provided some relief from the monotonous hallways and overbearing lights. On one side were pictures of bright smiling white families in front of tidy houses with the words: "KEEP YOUR HOME SPORE FREE -- BUY PERCY'S GRADE A FILTERS FOR YOUR WINDOWS -- A FILTERED HOME IS A STUMP FREE HOME." On the other side where posters of 'famous' exterminators: Bing Crosby, Marlene Dietrich, two of the Andrews Sisters (but not all three). There was even a separate section of black exterminators in the furthest corner of the lobby: Billie Holliday, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Marian Anderson.  

As usual, the lobby was full of people, mostly black. Many stood in line for various windows to report a stump sighting, arrange for an exterminator, or pick up a free paper mask to filter out spores. A longer line of people snaked in front of a door that had a sign above it in bold, yellow letters: "DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO BECOME AN EXTERMINATOR?"

In the center of the lobby was a television set displaying, in grainy black and white, a young blonde woman singing into one end of a long glass tube. At the other was a jar of stump dust insulated inside a thick glass box. A chipper male voice narrated, "If this woman was just a normal person, nothing would happen. But she falls into that 1% of the population that has a "unique vocal resonance" with the spores. Just look at that reaction!" And indeed, the camera cut to show the dust in the jar shimmering and swirling as it coalesced into tiny, indistinct forms. "All from the power of her voice!" The man pronounced in amazement.

The scene changed to show the woman, her hair and clothes perfect, striding into a building with a number of handlers. The narrator gushed about the exciting, yet dangerous, nature of the exterminator's life. An exterminator's voice raised in song could cause a stump to spawn, mature, and ultimately burst in a matter of seconds. An experienced handler was absolutely necessary in knowing when to stop the exterminator from singing to prohibit any more spawning. Inexperience could result in sloppy exterminations, respawning, or even immediate death. Despite the danger, the narrator enthused, exterminators and handlers were paid handsomely, for what they provided was a necessary civic duty for their country.

Minnie snorted. It was all bullshit. She was living proof of that.

She exited the SPC and headed to the bus stop just to the right of the entrance. Setting her case down, she pulled out her weekly copy of The Chicago Defender and flipped to the music section. As usual, there was no mention of her, her records, or the fact that she had been an exterminator for six months now. Count Basie was in town though--that took up half a page. Big bands were becoming more popular as more singers were being recruited into exterminators. The other half was an ad for Ella Fitzgerald, who became an exterminator in October 1939. Now everyone was buying up her records. The SPC had released a statement that recorded voices had no effect on stump spores, so for some singers, becoming exterminators were their best publicity yet.

But not for Minnie. She could still sell her records, but they didn't sell too well; she had always sounded better live. Unfortunately, the SPC banned her from singing lest she'd activated any stump spores that might be floating about. So, no more concerts. No more tours. No more singing in clubs. She tried to do just guitar pickin at clubs, but it was annoying with her handler there, watching her every move.

A black Ford sedan pulled up in front of the SPC building. A white man with a derby got out, the words "Stump Prevention Control" stitched in yellow on the back of his grey trenchcoat. He opened the back door of the car and out stepped a young, black woman in a long brown coat rimmed with fur and wearing short heels. She looked familiar.

Minnie glanced back down at the music ads. Ah, right there, towards the bottom: a photo of the same woman, holding a guitar, eyes cast upwards in a heavenly gaze. The caption beneath read: "Cheers to Chicago's Very Own Sister Rosetta Tharpe as she starts her new life as an exterminator on the South Side."

So that was the new exterminator. Damn. Girl got a notice in the Defender her first day working at the SPC, while Minnie got squat. Ain't that a bitch.

As the SPC man pulled a full storage bag that made Minnie's haul look like a deflated coin purse out of the car's trunk, the woman caught sight of Minnie. She minced over with eager steps-- amazing a big girl like her could stay upright in those short heels.

"Why, hello!" Minnie caught a strong force in her voice held in check, like an ocean wave restrained by a dam. "They said that there was another exterminator who also played guitar just like me. I see you got a guitar. Are you her?" A mole graced her left cheek.

Minnie's bus rolled up. She tucked the paper under her arm and picked up her case and told the girl, "Mind your own fucking business."

∙∙∙

According to the SPC, the first stump appeared in a corner of a Bronx apartment in April 1938. A German family, who had just moved to the apartment, assumed it was a statue left by the previous owner. They dusted it, hung clothes on it, and even allowed the children to play on it on occasion, until one day it burst.

By the time the police reached the apartment, two children lay dead, the parents alive but convulsing, bloody foam oozing from their mouths and nostrils. They died minutes later.

As paramedics wheeled the bodies away, they noticed brown lumps forming along the floors and the walls of the apartment. Within the day, the lumps had taken on human shape.

They looked very much like the German family who had just died.

Soon, reports began to pour in from all around Manhattan. Brooklyn. Queens. Harlem. People called them stumps because in the shapeless form, their wood-grain appearance really did make them appear like the stumps of trees. They always took on the form of the deceased people. After a certain period of time, they burst into glossy, light-catching motes the size of dirt particles. These spores were light and easy to spread to any surface: carried on the wind, buried in a dog's coat, breathed in by an unsuspecting person.

Face masks and dust filters grew in high demand.

In August 1938, the government, already burdened with a war it had entered against its intentions, had the Public Health Service commission a new agency, the Stump Prevention Control (SPC), to investigate and eradicate the stumps. The SPC discovered a small number of individuals contained a unique vocal resonance that could force stumps to mature and burst. This resonance only occurred in a cadence of embellished notes—in other words, singing. Recordings could not produce the resonance. The person had to sing directly to the stump to force a reaction.

At first, the SPC recruited well-known celebrities. Many were surprised when Frank Sinatra failed the test. Then there were the Andrew Sisters, where the two older sisters were found to have the resonance, but not the youngest. In September 1939, the SPC expanded the call for anyone with a talent for singing to come to their centers to be tested.

That same month, The Reverend Elder W. M. Roberts from the Fortieth Street Church of God in Christ visited Rosetta Tharpe at her apartment on Prairie Street. He sat in her kitchen, looking grave in his Sunday preaching suit. "Sister, it's been over a year now. Folks say you've gotten diminished."

He paused to let that sink in.

"You've been here ever since your mother brought you as a child to our fold. I know you're hurt, but it's time for you to start singing again."

Another pause. H e started to pat her folded hands, but one look from her made him change his mind. Instead, he said: "Your mother would've wanted it that way."

The following week, Rosetta went to the SPC office to take the resonance test. She wasn't surprised when she passed. Momma always did say she had a strong voice.

They gave her six weeks of training. She watched reel after reel of scientists explaining the effects of burst stumps, pointing to bodies that had been exposed to stump dust, noting in clinical terms the bulging eyes, the seized muscles, the froth dripping from their mouths and noses and ears, all in black and white. She learned about filters and masks, spent hours practicing how to put on her specialized mask until she could do it correctly in three seconds.

They also introduced Marty Houchen as her handler. He was easygoing and chatty, and liked wearing derbies and ascots like Cary Grant. "You may not know this," he gushed at their first meeting, "but I heard you a couple of years ago on the All Colored Hour  radio show. You were amazing! And your guitar! I mean, I'm not particularly religious, but after hearing you, I just about got saved that night--"

He stopped gushing when he saw the change in Rosetta's face. Since then, he never brought up her music career.

Six days out of the week, she got up at 4:00am and changed the filter on the air purifier, the first major purchase she'd made when she became an exterminator. It was a bulky thing that sat in her living room window, but it allowed her to go about her apartment without needing a face mask.

After washing up, dressing, and a quick bite to eat, she left her apartment to meet Marty, waiting for her outside with a thermos of coffee with a thick plastic straw that could be slipped under her mask. In his car was the extermination gear: the hoses, vacuum, containment bags, brushes, masks--over 50 pounds of gear. After going over the list of addresses that contained stumps in their district, they were off.

They exterminated up to twenty stumps per day. Setup took fifteen minutes, vacuuming a good twenty to forty minutes, depending on the size of the stump. A site containing more than one stump could take up their entire day. Not a single speck of stump could be left behind.

They'd return to the SPC around 8:00pm--midnight if it was a particularly heavy day. They turned in the stump dust they collected, updated their dockets, and collected payment, splitting it 50/50. Rosetta then left Marty to take the equipment to the fumigation rooms to ride home in one of the ubiquitous SPC yellow vans.  She went through her nighttime routine of going over her apartment for stumps, checking each corner, beneath her furniture. She changed the filters inside her vents, washed her face mask with the SPC's special sanitizing solution. She then took a shower herself with the same solution, scrubbing, rinsing, and drying every inch of herself. She didn't mind the work, or the long hours, or the tedious routine. It kept her from thinking too hard.

Sundays were her only day off.

She still attended the Fortieth Street Church of God in Christ. It was the first church she grew up in. It was where she first started playing guitar, standing on the piano, dancing while the congregation clapped. Where she met Thomas, fell in love with him, and married him. Where the women elders cried with her after she got the telegram two years ago that broke her life apart.

Now that she was an exterminator, the praise and gospel music, joyful as it was, only painfully reminded her what she had lost. That and the whispers.

"There goes Sister Tharpe. She was gonna go to New York once, didn't she?"

"Singing gospel music at the Cotton Club! Like a church!"

"Well, ain't gonna happen now. God must be judging her. You know she was going to divorce Thomas, right? "

"Well, like the Good Book says: 'be sure your sin will find you out.'"

Momma always said to keep your head high when people talk about you, so that was what Rosetta did. She threw herself into ushering, serving in the nursery, helping with dinner before the evening services. But she didn't sing. Wouldn't do it, no matter how many times the pastor asked.

How could she when it was her singing that killed Momma?

∙∙∙

One day, Rosetta left the SPC examination room from where she had her weekly throat check and caught sight of the woman who was so vulgar to her three weeks ago. The woman stood by a stairway door, waiting for a group of men in lab coats to pass. Then, to Rosetta's surprise, she ducked through the door.

Rosetta paused. After her last encounter, she wasn't so sure she wanted to face the woman again. But that staircase was off-limits except for authorized personnel. So where was that woman going?

Rosetta pretended to rummage in her purse while the lab coats passed her, deep in their conversation:

"--tests only showed 2% growth rate--"

"So, should we increase the sample area?"

When they had turned the corner of the hall, she also slipped through the stairway door. It didn't go down to the lower levels. Only up.

A few minutes of huffing and puffing lead her out onto the roof. It was graveled, edgeless, and loud--the roof was dotted with large metallic curved ducts rising from the gravel. Unseen machinery hummed and whined, drawing air into the ducts; like Rosetta's air purifier, but much louder.

The other woman stood next to a duct, her back to the stairwell, watching the sun sink into rosy-hued clouds and the rocky landscape of buildings.

Rosetta adjusted her face mask and walked towards her, careful to place her feet--this roof was not meant for short heels. The ducts were loud enough that the woman didn't hear her approach, but as Rosetta drew near, a different sound, just underneath the duct's whoosh, made her stop in surprise.

The woman was singing.

Rosetta couldn't pick out the words. Something slow and bluesy. The woman rocked back and forth, keeping time by tapping her foot, as her voice rose and fell, a low controlled caterwaul that wound itself around the ducts like a hungry cat, then slinked down into a growl before evening out again. The SPC had been so adamant about Rosetta not singing at all, and here was this woman right on the roof of the SPC, flaunting her voice. She wasn't even wearing a facemask. Her face was bare, open. Exposed.

The smart thing to do was to go back downstairs and report her to the nearest SPC agent.

But despite herself, Rosetta found herself rooted in place. She found herself thinking back to when she was eight, and was sick with a bad fever, and how she had woken up in the middle of the night to Momma sitting by her bedside, laying cool cloths on Rosetta's forehead and humming non-stop, the vocalization of her worry vibrating through her lungs and chest like prayer.

It had been so long since she heard anything like that.

The memory burst when the woman in front of Rosetta broke off from her singing to hock a wad of something brown and wet onto the roof. She pulled a handkerchief from her coat pocket and was lightly dabbing her lips when she finally caught sight of Rosetta. She turned, sticking her hands back in her pockets of her tweed coat. "Well, well, well. Whaddy'we got here?"

Rosetta replied with the same nonchalance as the woman. "You're singing."

"That's right. I am." Her speaking voice was a cross between a drawl and a growl. She was an older woman. Not as old as Momma had been, but maybe late thirties, early forties, with a hardness in her eyes and mouth that had nothing to do with age. "Watcha gonna do about it?"

Rosetta blurted the first thing that came into her mind. "Ain'tcha scared?"

The woman blinked, clearly not expecting the question. "Huh?"

"You're out here, in the open. There could be stump spores floating around us right now--"

"Oh, that's  what got you all worried?" She pointed to the ducts. "This here's probably the safest place in the whole city. Them things is sucking in all the air into the building. If’n there be any spores, they get stuck in them fancy filters they got in there. Course, with you charging up behind me without closing the door, there's probably got a whole team of SPC agents charging up the steps right now."

Rosetta threw a panicked look at the stairwell--but then she heard a squeal of laughter from the woman. "Oh, girl, look at your face. Got you good there, didn't I?" She bent double, slapping her knee, chuckling and snorting in a most unladylike manner. Her teeth flashed gold, not just a trick of the fading light, but real gold teeth.

Rosetta pressed her lips tight, then started towards the stairwell. "Hey," the woman gasped. "Come on, I was just kidding. Hey!" She reached for Rosetta's sleeve, but Rosetta snatched her arm away.

"Look, if you don't want me up here just say so. I was just listening. Haven't heard good singing since--" Rosetta stopped as her eyes suddenly stung with tears. Had it really been that long?

The woman sighed, then stuck out her hand. "Lizzie Douglas. But you can call me Memphis Minnie."

"Sister Rosetta Tharpe." Rosetta searched the woman's hand, looking for tobacco stains, before finally giving it a shake.

"One of them holy rollers, huh." The woman spat another plug of brown spit onto the roof. "And yet you followed me up here."

Rosetta shrugged. "I gotta keep an eye on the only other black woman in this place."

"Only bla--Oh my god this girl. This girl!" Minnie threw back her head and gave another squeal that descended into a husky chuckle. Despite herself, Rosetta smiled.

When the woman got herself under control, she dug in her coat pocket and pulled out a business card. "Here."

"What's this?"

"My way of sayin sorry for swearin at you the other day. Tonight. 11pm. Follow the directions on the card." The woman sauntered to the stairwell. "And don't let anyone follow ya. We don't just let any ole person in."

∙∙∙

The Alley Cat Club was located around 47th and Grand Boulevard, near the Regal Theater. The club itself was hard to find. You had to pass through two alleyways, tap on a back door three times, get ushered through a low hallway into another  alley, go down some steps, and tap on another door two times. Prohibition officially ended seven years ago, but the Alley Cat still preferred to remain hidden from scrutinizing eyes.

And with good reason. Minnie had read in this morning's edition of the Defender that there had been another club closure. The SPC cited that the owner had a faulty air purifier. Funny that none of the clubs the SPC closed were never allowed to reopen.

The Alley Cat was the opposite of the SPC--dim, humid and smoky, even with the purifiers cranked on high. Dark girls in orange cat ears and floppy tails waded through the sea of tables. Men, black and white, tossed back their drinks and tried to cop a feel from the waitresses, roaring in laughter when they got their hands slapped. Women decked in furs and jewels mocked the men and flirted with the busboys. On stage, a colored girl in nothing but beads jutted her hips to the strains of a ukulele--which could barely be heard over the chatter, the shrieks, and the occasional crash of chairs toppling over as a fight broke out and just as quickly stopped.  

No one wore face masks here.

Well. Except one person. When Minnie glanced out at the crowd from backstage, there was the young holy roller sitting at one of the front tables, prim and proper, breathing mask firmly in place. She looked so stiff and uncomfortable, one of the waitresses had taken pity on her and poured her a glass of ice water. Now and then, she peeked up at the dancer onstage before dropping her eyes back to her hands folded on the table.

"Hey Lawler," Minnie called out.

He put down the trunk he was carrying and scrambled over. Minnie had met Lawler back in her touring days. He sang on a few recordings with her before managing to woo her away from her first husband. Nowadays, he spent most of his days doing the occasional odd job, and most of his nights being an asshole. "What's up, baby?"

She pointed to the table. "I want you to keep an eye on that girl there."

Lawler pulled out a rag to wipe his sweaty face. "She get lost on her way to the midnight prayer meeting?"

"Goddammit, just watch her. Jesus."

The dancing girl did one last shimmy and scampered off, blowing kisses to the audience, and Minnie sauntered onto the stage. Tonight, she wore her best jewelry: a ring made from a six-sided die, and a silver dollar bracelet made from coins minted in the year of her birth. She had brushed her hair back, leaving a few curls high on her brow, and had donned a pair of glasses that made her look, according to one of her male friends, "like a colored lady teacher in a neat southern school."

Instantly, the audience leapt to a standing ovation; outside the Alley Cat, she may not have been well-known, but here, everyone knew and loved her.

"Hey y'all!" Minnie yelled. "How ya feelin?"

"Fine!" the audience roared back.

She strolled to the left of center stage, where resting against an amp sat her new toy: a steel-bodied electric National guitar, already plugged in. How Andre managed to get one when they weren't officially available to the public, she didn't know. She slung it over herself, got it settled in a comfy position, then drew her fingers down the strings. The electric chord crashed into the room, making people howl and Church Girl jump.

"Whoo, I don' know about you, but I feel like singing tonight. Y'all wanna hear me sing?"

The audience shrieked their approval. Church girl looked around, her eyes wide. She looked ready to bolt.

"We got you, Minnie!" Andre shouted from the back. Andre Fuqua, the owner of the Alley Cat, was a big guy with a tiny pencil mustache to go with his high, almost girlish voice. His purifiers were the best ones off the black market, and every so often, he paid off a couple of guys to reroute SPC inspectors to other bars and clubs. "Sing 'Fashion Plate Daddy' for me!"

"I sing whatever I goddam feel like," Minnie snapped. And she launched into "Jump Little Rabbit".

Her fingers came alive: frolicking, spinning, jitterbugging down the strings, while she belted rhythm on the guitar's body. She made her voice growl, snarl, and groan as the songs tumbled from her in a waterfall of sound: "Jailhouse Trouble Blues", "Can't Afford to Lose My Man", "Soo Cow Soo".

She whipped the audience into a frothing frenzy with "Dirty Mother For Ya", letting the rhyme lead up to where a cuss word ought to be, then cooling them down with a lick of glissando and a tamer word, only to rile them back up with an arched eyebrow and a jangling of notes. Every once in a while, she glanced over at Church Girl, expecting to see her storm out in a huff. But Church Girl stayed put, brown eyes wide and wet above her mask, following every movement of Minnie's hands on the strings with awe.

And why wouldn't she? The blues was the pluck of callused fingers on guitar string, the mmmm  thrumming deep in the throat, the ice clinking in a glass of forbidden whiskey. It was the moaning and the wailing locked behind a stoic face, of lowering your gaze when a white man yelled at you, the standing outside of the church and knowing that you will never, ever be let inside. That night, Minnie forgot she was Lizzie Douglas, exterminator, whose voice could endanger the lives of everyone in this room. Tonight, she was Memphis Minnie, blueswoman, who could play a mean guitar and make a church girl cry.

When she finished her final lick, Minnie sashayed off the stage, sweating and thirsty. Lawler handed her a gin and tonic on ice, and she went to plunk herself at Church Girl's table. "So. There's the answer to your question on the roof." She tossed down the drink and ordered another one. "What you think of that?

Church Girl wiped at her wet cheeks. "You just like breaking the law."

Minnie blinked, then howled and pounded the table. " That's  the first thing you say to me? After I pour myself out like that? Jesus..."

The girl broke in, "...is God and Savior and Lord of all?" She then crossed her arms and gave her head a firm, decisive shake as if that settled the matter, which only made Minnie crack up even harder.

∙∙∙

Rosetta came back to the Alley Cat the following week. And the next week. And the next.

She always sat up front, prim and proper, never drinking anything harder than tonic water. She didn't need to--she drank the acts on stage with wide, thirsty eyes. Sometimes, Minnie caught her tapping her foot or moving her head, but after a few minutes she'd stop, as if mortified she was actually enjoying herself. The girl was so damn solemn. It was hard to tell that she was the same person as the woman in the newspaper, guitar in hand, gazing heavenward. At least she stopped wearing the filter mask inside the club.

They didn't speak to each other when they were at the SPC. It was an unspoken agreement; they always got such looks, as if two black women in the same room together was too much of threat. But at the Alley Cat, it was easier for Minnie to hang with the girl. And Rosetta was starting to show signs of loosening up.

One night, they spotted Rosetta's handler, Marty, sitting at Andre's table. He looked up, caught sight of them, and turned a deep red. Minnie grabbed Marty by the arm and dragged him, protesting, over to a corner, leaving Rosetta to stand there staring awkwardly at Andre.

"Look. I don't know what the SPC got against clubs, but if you breathe one word of me and Rosetta bein here, I'll shoot you with my own gun."

"What? Why would I even--"

"Look." Minnie jerked her head towards Andre's table. Rosetta had sat down and was now laughing at something he said, her demeanor relaxed. "This place is doin some good for her. If the SPC finds out the both of us been comin here, they shut down this place so fast, even you being Andre's favorite boytoy won't cheer him up."

Marty's red face reversed color, draining to paper white. "How did you know?"

"I know Andre. You're his type."

He folded his arms and laid a finger alongside his sharp nose. "Fine, I won't tell the SPC about you and Rosetta being here. Just don't tell her about me and Andre. I don't know how she'll feel about it."

Turned out, Marty wasn't all that bad of a guy. He and Minnie chatted for hours about blues artists such as Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters and Bessie Smith. Minnie also tried to pick his brain about the SPC. The longer she worked at the SPC, the more things bothered her. For instance, just what did  they do with all the stump dust she and Rosetta collected? Where did it all go? How come she and Rosetta weren't allowed to go down to the lower levels of the building? What was with all the labcoats?

Marty didn't know. "I'm not allowed on the lower levels either. The only reason I got this job is because I don't ask too many questions. I just do what I told, you know?"

The SPC assigned Minnie a new handler, a thick mooch of a guy who must've felt he was a sergeant in the army. He yelled at her if she did not stop singing immediately  when he told her to stop. Forced her to sit in the back seat of his car and not touch anything . Harassed her if she lingered over lunch just a little longer than the required 15 minutes, or if she needed a break or the bathroom during an extermination. After a week of this, Minnie was at her wits' end.

It was Rosetta who suggested that she and Minnie combine forces at work. "Right now, we're both doin our own thing. If we're the only exterminators in the black part of the South Side, we need a better way of hitting all the stumps that pop up. We need to plan our routes together. That way we can cover more ground, and your handler gets more work to keep him busy and not so focused on you."

So, from that point on, Minnie had her handler take her to Rosetta's apartment, where all of them divvied up the stump sightings for the day. At first, the mooch grumbled and complained, but he shut up quick when Minnie not only started meeting her quota, but exceeding it. For the first time since becoming an exterminator, Minnie was finally making money.

"Hey, we make a pretty good team." She told Rosetta. "Maybe one day you and I need to get together to play for real. I keep hearing how good of a guitar picker you are." Minnie grinned, showing all her gold teeth.

Rosetta matched her with a rare grin of her own. "They used'ta say to me, "Shout, sister, shout! And I would do this trick I learned from Mom--"

She broke off and turned away, her face gone stiff as if shutting her emotions behind a door.

This always happened. Rosetta would get to relaxing and then something caused her to shut down, pulling a hard shell of grief down to protect herself. For any other person, Minnie would've given up.

But Minnie had seen Rosetta's fingers twitch on the table when a horrible guitar picker would be on stage at the Alley Cat, drumming out correct notes with a dexterity that intrigued Minnie. This girl need to play again; that much was clear.

So Minnie invited Rosetta over to her house on Thursday nights for dinner. She taught Rosetta how to play spades. She told stories of when she toured with the Ringling Brothers Circus, and busked on the Midway at Beale Street, though she only talked about the good times, not the darker, more questionable things she did to survive. It felt good to hang out with a fellow musician. Now if she could just get the girl to loosen up, things would be good. She just needed time, and if there was one thing that Lizzie "Memphis Minnie" Douglas had, it was plenty of time.

That is, until the day the SPC shut the Alley Cat down.

∙∙∙

One morning, Rosetta opened her front door, expecting to greet Marty, but found a slew of SPC agents instead. They took her to the SPC, where she spent a full day undergoing a full body check for spores, inside and out. Throughout it, the agents asked her about the Alley Cat. How long had she been going there? Did she ever sing?

Bewildered, Rosetta said she had never, ever sang at the Alley Cat. She kept quiet, however, when they asked about Minnie, staring at her hands in front of her, not willing to tattletale on the only female friend she had since… well… since her Momma died.

The agents sighed and made Rosetta rewatch the movie reels they had showed her at training.

It was close to midnight when they finally released her to Marty, who told Rosetta the truth. "The SPC stormed the Alley Cat after you left last night. They said they found stump dust in a small closet and shut the whole place down."

Rosetta wanted to curl into a ball. Her eyes felt gritty, but when she closed them, she kept seeing the images of dead people from the training, their pain and horror frozen forever on their faces. "How did they know Minnie and I were there?"

"Minnie's handler. He tailed her after work and saw the two of you meeting up in front of the club." Marty scowled. "Andre's a wreck. He said he that closet is part of his routine check day and night and he hadn't seen any stumps there at all." Marty stopped, peered closer at Rosetta. "Are you all right? You're shaking."

The full body check had included a laxative to clean out her insides. Her mouth tasted like chalk. "I'm fine. How's Minnie?"

"They released her a little bit before you. Are you sure   you're all right? If you want to take tomorrow off--"

"No." Rosetta said firmly. "We'll work, same as always."

"But--"

"That's my job, isn't it? To prevent something like this from happening? Come on. We'll talk to Minnie tomorrow."

∙∙∙

But Minnie didn't show up to Rosetta's house the following day. Or the day after that. At the end of the week, Rosetta had Marty drive her straight to Minnie's tiny house, not too far from her own apartment. All the shades were shut, and no one answered the door. "Maybe she isn't home," Marty said. Rosetta threw him an annoyed look and went around to the back.

Minnie had finally earned enough from the exterminating job to buy an air purifier, a hulking beast which stuck out her left kitchen window. "Like my twenty-year-old ass," Minnie had joked while it was being installed. Because of that, she no longer used her window filters, so Rosetta and Marty were able to peer into the kitchen window to see Minnie, clad in a pink housecoat, lying face down on the kitchen floor. The back door was unlocked, and Rosetta and Marty had to shove it open. A strong reek of moldy food and unwashed funk greeted them. Empty bottles, newspapers, and dirty dishes littered the floor.

"Oh dear God," Rosetta said, surveying the mess. "Is she dead?"

Minnie curled into herself and coughed a small stream of clear liquid onto the linoleum.

"No," Marty said, wrinkling his nose. He stooped to pick up a half-empty bottle of gin. "Just drunk."

"Oh." Rosetta looked down at the still form of Minnie for a long time, then turned to Marty with a bright smile. "Okay. You head on home. I'll take it from here."

"You sure?"

Rosetta bent over Minnie to hide her face. "Go on. I'll be fine."

When Marty left, Rosetta dropped her smile. She half-steered, half carried Minnie to the bathroom. She started the shower, then reached for Minnie, uncertain on whether she should undress Minnie or just stick her under the spray. But Minnie was coming out of her stupor, grumbling and pushing away Rosetta's hands to fumble at the housecoat's belt. Rosetta started to speak, then pressed her lips tight and went back to the kitchen. She put coffee in the percolator, found a somewhat clean skillet, and braved the icebox for bacon and eggs.

By the time Minnie moseyed in, toweling her hair, the bacon lay, still sizzling, on a plate and Rosetta had slipped the last egg into the hot bacon grease in the skillet. Minnie plopped herself in the small table in the center of the kitchen. "Hooooooweeee! Man, I'm so hungry, my stomach hurt like it's got meningitis. Hey, you know I wrote a song about that?" She began humming, slapping the table in beat, "'Hmmmm hmmm hmmm... the Minnie-Jitis killin meee.' Get it? Minnie-jitis?" she chuckled at herself.

Rosetta stirred the grits, keeping her face towards the hot stove. "How long have you been lying on the floor like that?"

"Damn girl, you never ain't seen a bender? Hell, this ain't nuthin. Should tell you about the time back when I was busking back in Memphis. Got into a drinking match with Tiny Joe. Drunk him under in three hours. Then he drunk me into bed, and oooweeeee!" She leaned back in the chair, chuckling to herself. "Came home strutting like an alley cat. Stinkin like one too."

Rosetta flipped the eggs over easy. "I just thought you'd have more common sense than this."

"So I drank too much. Don't worry yourself, church girl. Get some food in me and I'll be back singing for the Man and my supper in no time. Jesus Christ--"

Rosetta didn't correct her.

Minnie started rooted through the dirty dishes on the table, looking for her tin of tobacco. "All right, what's with you? So the SPC finally caught up to us. No harm done."

"No harm done?" Rosetta whirled to face Minnie. "They found stump spores at the Alley Cat. If you had sang, people would've died . And not only that, you missed a whole week of work! And for what? Because you were lying drunk on the floor all week?"

"Yeah, but no one died, didn't they?" Minnie finally found the tin and tried opening it. Either the lid was on too tight or she was still too hungover to do anything, so she threw it back on the table in disgust. "Hell, it could've grown and burst anyway without us being there at all."

"How do you know? You could've done what you did just now. It don't take much, Minnie. Even if it's just a bit of singing, that could be enough for a stump to do its thing."

 "Alright, all right," Minnie grumbled. "I hear you."

"No, you need to get this through your head. You're an exterminator now. Singing's become too much of a liability. If that stump burst at the Alley Cat, think of how many people could've died. Maybe it wouldn't be our fault, but still, we can't take the risk. And maybe it's a good thing it got shut down. What if someone who hasn't been tested as an exterminator started singing and made the stump burst?"

"So we just shut up and do our jobs and in the SPC will use any excuse they can to shut down more clubs. What'll happen after that? Think the SPC just gonna stop there? You do a lot of singing at church, dont'cha? The SPC could start shutting them down too. Pretty soon everyone's gonna be too scared to sing. Think of it. No more songs, no more lullabies. Hell, no more jingles. That what you want?"

Rosetta's voice quavered. "Even the Bible says, "'There is a time to speak and a time to be quiet--'"

"Now that's some bullshit right there. I've seen how you at the Alley Cat. Your eyes all big and shiny, sitting at that table in the front, drinking all them songs in. Face it, honey, you need singing to live."

Rosetta slammed the skillet on the stove hard enough to make it rattle. "My Momma died because of my singing!"

In the sudden silence, the percolator let out a shrill burst of steam. Rosetta turned it off, then stood there, pressing her palms into the counter. "I was all set to go to New York to join the Cotton Club. The owner there had heard me sing and wanted me to be part of the act there. Momma said if I could make it at the Cotton Club, I could make it anywhere.

"But my husband didn't like it. We had been married for four years, and he wanted to settle down, have kids. But I wasn't ready, lord, I wasn't ready. When I got offered the job at the Cotton Club, oh, we fought and fought. Finally, he said fine, we'll go to New York, but only if I let him be my manager. Momma had been managing my singing ever since I was born. She told me that if Thomas became my manager, I would never get any good gigs, so the both of us decided that I would divorce him.

"I stayed behind in Chicago to start the paperwork, while Momma went to New York with Thomas. She was gonna break the news to him there. Momma was always doing the hard things for me. 'God's given you a gift, Rosetta,' she used to tell me all the time. 'You can't keep quiet. You need to let the world know! Those people in the club ain't gonna hear gospel music otherwise.' And I believed her. I believed her."

Understanding made Minnie sober. She sat up in her chair. "Let me guess. She died before telling him."

"They both died. A stump in an alley burst just as they were passing it walking down a street in Harlem, looking at apartments."

"Sheeeeeit."

"It should have been me!" Rosetta cried as she turned to Minnie. "If I hadn't accepted that gig, Momma would've never gone to New York. I couldn't even bring her home because of the quarantine."

"What about your husband? You miss him?"

Rosetta pressed her hands against her eyes. She then faced Minnie, her eyes were red, but dry. "No," she said. "I don't miss Thomas. He was… a jealous man. He didn't deserve death. But I married him, for better or for worse, and now I'm paying the price for putting my singing career above being a wife to him. Even if they hadn't died, my career would've been over. The Cotton Club was one of the first clubs they shut down during the quarantine there. The stumps are a punishment from God."

Minnie snapped. "Look, I feel bad for ya, but I ain't gonna let you talk like that. What happened was an accident. Could've happened to anyone. And it sure ain't no punishment if you got different aspirations than your man. If’n he couldn't deal, then you were right in walkin out the door. Ain't no such thing as punishment."

"It's still sin, though. Sin is the consequences you get for following false idols. Mine is putting my singing before everything else. Yours is thinking you can do whatever you want, when you want. The Alley Cat closing is just one of the signs."

"Now hold on," Minnie said, rising to her feet. "Finally showing that holy roller side, huh? You fuckin knew what you were getting into when you met me. Ain't no angel wings on my shoulders."

The pot of grits on the stove bubbled fiercely as the bacon took on a sharp burnt smell. "You're a sinner, Minnie. Being reckless. Flaunting the rules. Drinking until you pass out. You need Jesus in your life. Only he can save you. Probably the only reason why He brought us together was to keep you from going to hell--"

Minnie's face twisted. "Get out."

"But--"

Minnie swept her arm across the breakfast table. The dishes, the newspapers, all went crashing to the floor. "Get the hell out of my house! Go on! Get !"

Rosetta hesitated, then turned her back on the ruined breakfast. She paused at the back door, "I'll pray for you."

She then ran to avoid the pot of burnt grits crashing against the door.

∙∙∙

Minnie sat fuming and muttering to herself at the back of the No. 29 bus, her overcoat wrapped around the gray pink dress, her wet hair tied under a black scarf. When other riders came towards the back, she scowled hard enough for them to sit somewhere else.

Rosetta saying she'd pray for her. Ain't that rich. Minnie had people praying at her all her life.

"Lord, help Lizzie to stop runnin off so much. Lord, help Minnie to stop sleepin with so many men so the right man can come along an’ marry her. Lord, please  make Lizzie just stay home and stay outta trouble?"

Thing was, Minnie didn't see how the alternative was any better. Just because you were saved and sanctified didn't mean that life got automatically better for you. Good people still had to sit in the back of the bus, got chased from their homes from moving into the wrong neighborhood, lynched for looking at white people the wrong way. If God was supposed to make everything better for those who believed in Him, He was doing a shit job at it. People like Rosetta didn't care just how hard a life Minnie lived. All they cared about was how 'pure' and 'holy' she was. Well, Minnie lost her pureness long, long ago.

Fuck em. Fuck em all.

Minnie looked out the window and saw that they were now in a different neighborhood. The signs on the storefronts were in a different language than English. "Hey driver!" she called out. "What happened to Wentworth Avenue?"

"We passed it ten minutes ago," he called back. "We in Bridgeport now, lady."

A chill went through Minnie. Blacks never went into Bridgeport neighborhood. Lots of Polacks, Irish and Lithuanians folk, none who took too kindly to their black neighbors to the east. State Street was the dividing line; any black folk caught passed that were sure to get chased back across, if they were so lucky. Common sense would be to stay on the bus, ride it to the end, then ride it back to Bronzeville. Tell the driver she fell asleep and missed her stop.

Instead, she pulled the cord to let her off at the next stop.

Butcher shops and furniture stores glowered at her with their shabby storefronts. Old women with scarves tied around their chins stopped on the sidewalk, bushy eyebrows pulling down in disapproval as she passed by. Young children peered out of doorways, unsmiling. Hard faces. Pale faces. Unwelcome faces.

Minnie shoved her hands deeper in the pocket of her coat and kept her pace steady, but not dawdling. Yeah, I'm walking my black ass down the street. Watcha gonna do about it?  

She turned a corner into an empty lot and came across the largest patch of stumps Minnie had ever seen.

About twenty of them, in odd clumps and bunches, as if someone dumped stump dust by the handful and allowed them to grow. All were in various stages of maturity: a formless mass here, a fuller formed torso and arm of a man there. One stump of a black woman looked fully matured; Minnie could count the coils of her hair, the lines her outstretched fingers, the other hand splayed over the full roundness of her stomach. Her mouth was stretched wide open in what was undoubtedly a scream.

Minnie circled the patch, baffled. Standard SPC protocol was that discovered stumps would be secured with bags so they could at least be contained until an exterminator dealt with them. But none of these stumps were bagged. Why were so many stumps out in the open so close to people? And why so many?

She reached up to make sure her filter mask was in place; her fingers touched bare skin. She had stormed out of her house without her filter mask. She was unprotected.

"Well, well, what we got here?"

Minnie turned to see about six to seven white men of various ages, dressed all in denim. For face masks, they had tied handkerchiefs and strips of fabric from shirts and bed linen around their noses and mouths. Above their impromptu face masks, their eyes were hard and suspicious. They must've worked in the stockyards, for the all had a smell of butchered blood.

As much as she hated the SPC, she used it as an excuse now. "I'm an exterminator. Just checking out these stumps. I'll be gone before you know it."

"Is that so?" A burly man with a red handkerchief stepped forward. "Seems like we had all sorts of SPC types crawlin around here as of late. What happened? Did they abandon you?"

"What are you talking about?"

The men laughed. It wasn't happy laughter. "Your yellow vans been crawling all over our neighborhood at all hours of the night. Next day, there's stumps all over the place. They don't send no one to take care of them neither. We had to form brigades to keep stupid kids away." Red Handkerchief's eyes narrowed. "And you."

"Wait," Minnie rubbed her head. The anger she had sustained up to now was beginning to ebb, leaving in its place a pounding headache that intensified the more she tried to think. "Where's your exterminator? I know you have one for this area."

"Yeah, funny thing that. He's gone. Haven't been around for weeks."

"But still, they should have at least secured the area so the stumps don't spread."

"You think they do that, but they haven't. In fact, we've been doing it ourselves with sacks. But here's the thing. When we come back later, our sacks are gone. Somebody's been taking them off."

"But that makes no sense," Minnie said. "Why leave the stumps exposed? At this rate, so many of them would spread, they'll have to quarantine the city just like--"

Minnie's hangover vanished as her entire body went cold.

What if that was what the SPC wanted all along ?

"Go home," she told the men, her mind racing. "Get your families and get out of the city, now. A whole lotta people gonna die."

"We ain't goin nowhere," Red Handkerchief said. The men behind him spoke.

"For all we know, maybe it's you  who've been stealin our bags."

"Maybe she was sent here to see if the stumps done their work."

"I ain't even sure she is  an exterminator."

"Niggers always lie to get outta anything."

More ugly laughter. Minnie stepped back, beginning to regret ever saying she worked for the SPC. Used to be that she would carry a pistol for times like this, but like an idiot she left it back at her house --

Something hard poked her between her shoulder blades. And Minnie realized she had a weapon after all.

"Back off," she snarled, moving aside to show the stump of the black woman with her fingers outstretched. "I'll sing".

Some of the men looked at the Red Handkerchief, uncertain. He shook his head and scoffed, "She's bluffin. She'd get killed too."

It wasn't the offhand way he said it, but the way the other men nodded in agreement that filled Minnie with fear. She opened her mouth to sing, " You saayyy that's life; there's something wrong with me..."  

Red Handkerchief lunged towards her, "Stupid bitch! Stop!"

Several things happened at once. The stump of the black woman burst into shining motes. The man's fist punched into Minnie's stomach, making her double over, her breath exploding from her. Her clawing hand raked his face, yanking down his handkerchief, exposing his face. As the motes floated around her, Minnie struggled, trying to ride out the ache in her abdomen and the instinct to not to breathe in. But her lungs won over her abdomen, and when her stomach muscles unclenched enough, she made a ragged, involuntary, gasp--

Rose Haskell is standing on the corner, waiting for the trolley to pass. Her son squirms in his arms. He's a year old, and already so heavy. Or maybe it's her belly, heavy with another child. Sweet Charlie is at his second job, cleaning offices. He'll only have a few minutes to eat dinner before going to the stockyards. The workers were on strike, so the stockyards were paying him to cross the picket lines. He didn't want to do it, but perhaps it could give him permanent work.

She hears the shouting of the men before they round the corner of the street. Angry men, running so fast, she doesn't have time to move, to scream. They surround. They yell. They yank her boy from her arms. He shrieks so loud, so loud, until he stops abruptly. That red thing being bashed on the sidewalk. No, that couldn't be. That's not her son. That bloody thing, red matter flying, no...

And then they're tearing into her, ripping, grabbing, tearing, thrusting, why don't they stop, animals, animals, so much pain, she can't fight, it hurts so much red, so much--

Then Minnie found herself on her hands and knees back in the lot, staring at the ground.

What the hell?

Minnie rose gingerly to her feet and checked herself. Other than the dull ache of her abdomen, she seemed fine. No seizures, no foaming at the mouth, no coughing up blood. Red Handkerchief sat flat on his ass, staring pop-eyed into space. A couple of other men began to sit up from where they'd lay in various positions, groaning as they stared around them. The rest must've run off.

She was fine. The men were fine. They were all fine.

So what the hell happened?

"Rose..."

Minnie jerked her gaze back to Red Handkerchief. "What did you say?"

"That woman. Rose Haskell." He touched his face, then splayed his hands over his stomach and stared at it for a long time.

Minnie shook her head, stunned. "You saw her too?"

"Saw her? I was her . I lived her. I… was her. I know things about her. Those men… what they did… I could feel it… how do I know all this?"

One of the men retched. Minnie whirled, heart hammering, but the man pulled off the cloth around his face and wiped his mouth with it. "I remember my Pa telling me about that race riot. He never said he was part of it." He spat. "I felt everything they did to her. She was pregnant . And that boy. How could they--"

Minnie said slowly, "You were about to do the same to me."

Red Handkerchief jerked up his gaze, anguish in his face. He started to speak but Minnie put up her hand to stop him. She was missing something, something she needed to look at right now .

On the ground, she could see the stump dust. She bent, touched a bit with her finger. She had never seen stump dust outside of a filter bag before. It was soft and powdery, like dull chalk dust. There was an almost sweetish smell to it, like dried rose petals.

"How come we not dead?" she asked.

"Huh?"

"Stumps burst, people die. That's what's supposed to happen. But we're all alive, aren't we? What changed? Why aren't we dead?" She stopped, then said, incredulous, "All I did was sing..."

In the distance, she could hear the faint wail of sirens. Bending, she scooped up a handful of dust. Putting some distance between herself and the remaining stumps, she bent her head and hummed into her cupped hands, just barely under her breath. The dust in her hands didn't shimmer or reform. They didn't do anything.

Those lying sons of bitches.

The sirens grew nearer. Minnie ran over to Red Handkerchief. "Hey! You wanna do something about what you just saw?"

He stared up at her, as if still dazed. Minnie dug into her coat pocket, threw the business card at him. "Call that number on the card. Tell whoever answers to find Rosetta Tharpe. Tell her she needs to sing to the stumps. You got it? Don't go to the SPC. You tell her Minnie said to sing to the stumps! Sing! Just like her momma told her to! Go! Go!"

Red Handkerchief fumbled at the card. The other two men were already scrambling out of the lot. She pushed him to get him going, then stood with legs braced in front of the stumps. By the time the SPC roared into the lot with their yellow vans, Minnie was the only one left. She set her hand on her hips.

"About time, boys. We got some talkin to do."

∙∙∙

The black phone by Rosetta's bed jangled. She put a hand out from the covers, groped for the receiver, and pulled it under the covers. "'Lo?"

"Rosetta? Is that you?"

"Marty? What-what time is it?"

"Rosetta, it's two in the afternoon. Are you in bed?"

She grunted a garbled reply.

"I take it that's a yes. Listen. I need you to get dressed and come down to the Alley Cat right away. It's important."

"The Alley Cat was closed."

"Yeah, but that's not the only place anymore. Rosetta, Chicago's been quarantined!"

Rosetta shot up from the covers. "What!"

"You really don't know, do you? Look, I'm sending a taxi to your place right now. Be ready in fifteen minutes."

Rosetta tried to say more, but Marty hung up. Annoyed, she set the receiver down, pulled the scarf off her head and ran her fingers through her disheveled hair. She hadn't gone to church that morning; a rare thing for her. She just hadn't been in a worshipping mood, not after what happened at Minnie's yesterday. But the SPC putting Chicago under a quarantine must've meant things gotten bad. But why would Marty have her go to the Alley Cat instead of the SPC?

An hour later, Rosetta arrived at the Alley Cat, where Andre let her in. Empty of its patronage, the club had an empty, lonesome quality to it. Marty waved at her from the only table that didn't have its chairs stacked on top of it. Next to him another white man twisting a red handkerchief in his large hands. Andre left her and headed into the dark, silent recesses behind the stage.

Rosetta sat down. "What's going on?"

Marty made a face. "It's Minnie. The SPC picked her up last night over in Bridgeport."

"Bridgeport! What was she doing over there?" Actually, it would be just like Minnie to run off and do something stupid like that.

"We've been patrolling the place, my friends and I," The man said, not looking at her. "We found her at this patch of stumps. She… we… aw hell. We were threatening her. Just wanted to scare her really. We weren't gonna do anything serious. But she got scared, so she sang."

"She what?  In front of the stumps?" She glared at the man. "You're lucky you're not dead!"

"Yeah… that's the thing. We didn't die. No convulsions, no coughing up blood. Even your friend was fine, and she wasn't even wearing a face mask. But the stump that burst… we saw… we saw."

Haltingly, he told the story of the Rose Haskell, how he saw everything in her life, right up to how she and her children died at the hands of a mob. Rosetta listened, her hands pressed to her mouth. "And all of you saw this? Even Minnie?"

"Yeah. She was pretty sure it was her singing that did it. Otherwise, we would've been dead."

"But the SPC told us to only sing enough to make the stumps burst. They said anything more and it would be too dangerous!" She turned to Marty. "Did you know about this?"

He dropped his gaze, started playing with the brim of his hat.

"You… did …  know," she said in slow disbelief.

"What you and Minnie saw is called 'residual memory'." Marty spoke in a low voice, not looking up from his hat. "It's the last form stump dust takes after it's been rendered inert by an exterminator's voice. Once the memory gets played it, it just becomes useless dust. Our job as handlers was to gather the stump dust before it became residual memory."

"H-how long have you've known?"

"Since my first day. At the time, I thought nothing of it. I wasn't paid to think. All I had to do was keep quiet and do my job." He glanced at the other man. "Then I heard about your exterminator. Seems he also found out the stumps' secret by accident. The SPC took him in and he was never seen since."

"And now they got Minnie," Rosetta said, her voice hard. "But you still haven't said why the SPC would do this. Why all the secrecy? Why are they doing this?"

Marty dropped his eyes again. "I don't know."

The man cleared his throat, twisting the handkerchief so tight it was close to tearing. "'Scuse me, but your friend? She gave me a message for you. She said… to tell you to sing to the stumps."

She stared at him. "What?"

"She said to sing to the stumps. It's somethin you're supposed to do. Like your momma told you to."

It was as if a ghostly finger plucked her insides.

The man rose. "Look, I need to get home." He hesitated, then, said in a rush. "If you ever find your friend, tell her… tell her I owe her a drink." With that, he left. Minnie would see it as an apology. It did, after all, involve alcohol.

Assuming they could find Minnie.

"Where are they holding her now?" Rosetta asked Marty. "And don't you dare say, 'I don't know.'"

He said, resigned. "They would have taken her to the lower levels. It's… it's where I'm also supposed to take you. In fact, my orders were to bring you in last night."

"But you didn't."

He squirmed, which made him look younger. Rosetta stood up and hollered towards the stage. "Hey Andre!"

He emerged, rubbing his hands with a rag. "Yeah. What's up?"

"We're going to the SPC and I need your help." She gave Marty a hard look. "Both of you. We're gonna do some warfare of our own."

∙∙∙

Rosetta kept her eyes fixed on the road as Marty raced his Ford towards the SPC. She clenched the door handle tight, as if she could add every ounce of her strength to make the car go faster. Every so often, Marty glanced over towards her.

"You all right?"

"I'm fine."

He stayed quiet for a couple of minutes. "You sure you want to do this? I mean… think about Minnie--"

"Minnie can take care of herself," Rosetta snapped. "We need to do this first. I  need to do this."

Marty clammed up. Rosetta focused her attention back on the road and her rage.

The SPC had used her. All that talk of being careful with her voice, the throat checks, the admonishments to always being careful not to sing. All this time, it was a lie. No...worse than a lie. It was a cover up of epic proportions. And she had been complicit in it, using her guilt over her mother's death, her own faith-- her own faith --to justify the SPC's work.

By nature, Rosetta considered herself a joyful soul: quick to smile, slow to anger. But now, she was startled to discover that a furious rage had been slowly building inside of her. Rage at the SPC, at herself, at Marty. And she had liked  Marty. He always found some way to make her laugh. He had been so considerate of her since her first day on the job.

She hadn't felt such betrayal since the day Thomas beat her when she told him about the Cotton Club job.

The street leading to the SPC was closed off by police. Marty showed them his SPC badge and indicated he was bringing Rosetta in per their request. The police waved him through, but warned him. "Got some folks angry about the quarantine. I suggest you get some of the security guards to help you. It's not a pleasant sight."

Indeed, the place was in chaos. A crowd of men--and a few women--stood in the street outside of the SPC, shouting at the security guards lining the entrance. Several bodies lay on the ground, eyes fixed in death, frothy blood streaming from their mouths and noses. The guards wore heavy gas masks, similar to the one Rosetta used in extermination.

And everywhere were stumps. The sidewalk and street were littered with misshapen clumps of them growing together, like the strangest game of Freeze Tag. As she watched, a guard lifted what looked like a tube to his shoulder. There was a dull whump as something shot out of the other end to land several yards away in a burst of smoke. The crowd scattered to the other side of the street, but one or two stumbled. They dropped to the ground, their bodies jerking and seizing as they tried to claw at the rags tied around their faces, then they stilled.

From the smoke, a shapeless mass began to form. By the time Marty pulled up, it had sprouted several arms, a foot, and the head of a small child sightlessly gaping at the sky.

Rosetta's gut crawled. Now she knew what the quarantine was for. The SPC were turning stumps into weapons and wanted to test them out. She wished she could swear like Minnie.

"Get me as close to the sidewalk as you can," she told Marty. "Put us between them and the crowd."

Marty did so, muttering. "I sure hope this works."

There was an electric feeling in the air, something like Rosetta used to feel before coming on stage to do a concert, but this felt tense, simmering with anger. As she emerged from the car someone shouted, "Sister! Sister Rosetta Tharpe!"

She recognized Lawler's voice; he had one of Minnie's face masks strapped on, but it was undoubtedly him. He shouted at her. "They won't let me in to see Minnie!"

"We'll see about that," Rosetta shouted back. She hiked up her dress a bit, and hoisted herself onto the hood of the Ford. Every eye instantly riveted on her. Good, she still knew how to play a crowd. Ignoring Marty's horrified face as the hood groaned and buckled under her boots, she surveyed the scene, hands on her hips.

One of the guards moved towards her, his voice hissing from his gas mask. "Miss Tharpe… Miss Tharpe… come down. We'll have someone escort you inside. It's too dangerous out here."

She turned her back on him and addressed the crowd. "What's this I'm hearing about a quarantine? The stumps are getting outta control? Is that right?" Rosetta was never the sort to need a microphone to make herself heard. She turned so that she could include the guards. "Stumps kill. We all know that. We see their handiwork now. But I just found out something that makes me question all that. Y'all know Memphis Minnie, right?"

A few cheers rose from the crowd. Most, however, exchanged confused looks, including the guards.

"Well, let me tell you, she learned something she shouldn't have and now the SPC's went and took her in, and we got this quarantine. Coincidence? I don't know. But like my Momma always said, strange things are happening, every day."

She gave a signal to Marty, who stuck Minnie's National guitar out the window.

The sight of the guitar elicited a response from both sides; the crowd crying out and scrambling back, the guards moving forward, yelling at her to stop. Rosetta settled the guitar around herself and strummed. Andre had set up the amp to run from Marty's battery in his car and the effect was powerful. The chord jangled into the air, electric and glassy and just a little bit off-key.

"I don't know about you," she boomed, "but I think it's gonna rain ."

She was no longer at the SPC, but back in church, six years old, dressed in her pink pinafore and her hair braided in four pigtails with pink barrettes, standing on an old piano while Momma beamed at her from below as she strummed on her mandolin.

Sing, baby girl,  Momma said back then.

And so she did. She launched into the old spiritual "Didn't It Rain", gospeled up her style. She made that guitar talk, riffing and jamming, her fingers dancing over the strings. She called out. "Didn't it rain, children?" and then responded to herself. "Yes!"

"Didn't it?"

"Yes!"

"Oh, didn't it? Didn't it rain? Yes!"

Rosetta could never get a straight answer on what happened next. Marty said one of the guards panicked. Lawler said, no, the guard knew exactly what he was doing. All Rosetta knew was that one moment, she was so deep in her music, the next, something struck her in the center of her chest, knocking her off the hood of the car. As she tumbled, she gasped, and it was like breathing in tiny sparks of hot embers--

Yu Lan Lin lugs her suitcase down Cermak Avenue in Chinatown. Though many of the street sings and buildings are in her familiar Mandarin, she doesn't know which street would take her to her Uncle's apartment. She squints at the piece of paper which holds his address, then up at the buildings pressed against each other. In a small way, it reminds her of Beijing--

A rough hand wraps around her mouth before she has time to scream. More hands drag her into an alley. Cold, sharp metal presses against her neck… and disappears just as quickly. The hands let go of Yu Lan, who drops to her knees, dimly aware of someone fighting off her attackers.

"You wanna mug poor defenseless girls? You gotta go through me first!"

The attackers run off, and the young man turns to help Yu Lan up. "They won't be bothering you again."

"Thank you," Yu Lan starts to say, then stops. The young man in front of her looks half-Chinese, wears a well-tailored shirt and trousers, and is clearly not a man.

"They call me Rita," she says. "My pops run this place. Where do you need to go?"

Yu Lan will die of pneumonia a year later, but her time spent with Rita Moy, daughter of the unofficial Mayor of Chinatown, would be considered the best years of her life.

And Rosetta found herself flat on her back, staring up at the sky, her chest heaving… but alive. She sat up and the crowd gasped.  Rosetta could barely believe it herself. There was no hint of pain or seizures. Her head was clear, albeit filled with joyrides and the warmth of Rita's arm across her shoulders. Rosetta rose, brushed the powdery remains of stump dust off herself.

"We've been doing this all wrong," she said, scooping up the guitar. "We're supposed to sing them down. That's all they want." She went to a stump. This one was an older looking black man, crude cap and overalls just beginning to form. She found her fingering, began singing again. This time, when it burst, she was prepared--

Lawrence Jameson has worked almost fifty years in construction. He's proud of his work, though sometimes he had to fight to get jobs. But he's a man of integrity. He's on a building now, hauling a wooden plank on his shoulders, walking a girder forty-one stories up with the ease of a walking across a fallen log… until his foot slips and his stomach flipflops as he loses his balance, falling through the air

--And was Rosetta back and whirling over to another stump--

And she was a runner for Al Capone drowning in the Chicago River and she was an old woman dying in bed after days of battling a hard cough and she was a young woman pausing from scrubbing a tub to listen to her children's laughter and she was a homeless man beaten in an alley...

For this was what the gospel was supposed to be. It was never about fear. It was about going to those all alone in darkness and bringing them light. Gospel was voices lifted in song, the open throated cry of joy. It was water bent towards parched lips, the tears and laughter bubbling from reunited friends. It was standing in front of the church and proclaiming, "I don't care what you've done. You are always welcomed here."

"Rain!" she sang, spinning in the street.

"RAIN!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the buildings.

"RAIN! " she thundered, and the crowd swarmed past her, past Marty's car, past the guards--who had removed their masks and had the shell-shocked look of survivors who didn't expect to live through a fire.

In plucks and chords and harmonies, she brought those stumps to church, spun their memories into riffs and chords and sang them out for everyone to hear.

"Rosetta!"

It took her a moment to recognize Marty shaking her arm. "You can stop now. Look! The stumps are all gone."

She coughed with a dry throat—it had been too long since she sang. "Where's Lawler?"

"He booked it into the SPC a while ago." As he spoke, Rosetta could hear shouting and the shattering of glass coming from inside the building.

"Well, then." Rosetta pulled her Gibson out of the car and gave it a strum. Somewhere, her Momma was smiling. "Now we can go get Minnie."

∙∙∙

In her later years, an older, thinner Memphis Minnie would sit and cackle over what she called "The Storming of the SPC".

"Oh, it was a riot," she would say in interviews. "All the SPC people running around like chickens with their heads cut off. They put me in a room and then get all panicky and put me in another room. I had no idea what was going on. Whoooo--ee! I didn't know if it was a jail break or Mardi Gras."

What she never told the interviewers, or anyone else for that matter, was when Minnie was finally found by Lawler and Rosetta--Lawler punching out labcoats right and left, and Rosetta singing "When the Saints Come Marchin In" at the top of her lungs--she had to press her face into the wall so no one could see her cry.

The FBI was called in to investigate the illegal activities of the SPC: spreading stump spores in poor neighborhoods and analyzing the results, kidnappings, extortion, experimentation on homeless people. Eventually, Minnie and Rosetta were asked to help the government put together a new stump elimination program, one that focused more on allowing the stumps to release their memories safely. They agreed, but with one condition.

"So that's how we got Andre his club back." Rosetta told a group of party-goers.

She and Minnie were at the newly re-opened Alley Cat. Andre had begged both Rosetta and Minnie to sing. He had even presented Rosetta with her own electric guitar: a National Triolian, similar to Minnie's.

So, for the first time, Sister Rosetta Tharpe and Memphis Minnie jammed on stage together, Rosetta with her high chants, Minnie with her low growls. They sang until one in the morning, when they both came down to take a break and let others take the stage.

"Damn straight," Minnie said. "Way I see it, if the SPC is gonna pay me to sing. and I mean really sing, I'm gonna jump on that shit."

"I thought you didn't like following their rules."

"I can too. When they make sense."

"Mind if I join?" Marty came to their table, his tie loose, carrying a couple of glasses. Rosetta rose to her feet.

"Actually, I'm going to do some more singing. You two can talk without me." Rosetta avoided Marty's eyes as she headed towards the stage.

Marty sighed as he sat down. "She's not going to forgive me, isn't she?"

"Can't blame her. Your testimony may have done some good, but you gotta long way to get her trust back." Minnie gave him a wide grin. "And we loooove holdin onto our grudges."

On stage, Rosetta strapped on her Triolian. "I'm gonna need someone to help me. Anyone know 'Up Above My Head'?"

"I do," Another woman called out. She was ushered onto the stage. She had sweet eyes and a sweet smile.

"Well, then, let's see if you can keep up!"

Rosetta launched into song. The woman, at first, was hesitant, but then as she became more comfortable grew more animated, trading lyrics with Rosetta with all the confidence of a well-seasoned singer. Their two voices fit each other like two peas in a pod, the woman's strong contralto wrapping itself effortlessly around Rosetta's high soprano. Minnie sat up straighter, noticing that other people were watching spellbound.

Well, damn me if they don't got something there...

If the room hadn't been loud before, it certainly erupted when they finished. Rosetta whooped and grabbed the woman's hands.

"That was amazing! What's your name?"

The woman blushed. "Marie Knight. I just became an exterminator two weeks ago."

"Is that so?"

Minnie snorted and drained her glass. Great. Another holy roller to contend with. When she set it down, she saw that Rosetta and Marie were still holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes, cheeks slightly flushed, their smiles soft and slightly silly.

Well, well, well.

Minnie gave Marty a nudge. "Hey. You wanna get Rosetta's trust back? Tell her about you and Andre. I got a feelin she won't mind."

—END—

ABOUT LASHAWN M. WANAK

LaShawn M. Wanak lives in Madison, WI with her husband and son.  Her latest written works can be found in Strange Horizons , Fireside  Magazine, and Uncanny  Magazine. She reviews books for Lightspeed Magazine and is a graduate of the 2011 class of Viable Paradise. Writing stories keeps her sane. Also, pie. Read more of her stories at her blog, "The Cafe in the Woods" at tbonecafe.wordpress.com.

ELLA HOUR

By Uche Ogbuji

        She sang the song of the universe

        She can make a joyful noise up to heaven

        And call the angels down to the earth

            —Vanessa Williams

What Fitzgerald can doo-be-do in the pitch of a fork tuned to bluest true

Is re-daub flame from red red soil substance upon blood of the earthly bred.

How high the moon;

Out in the ruinous loneliness

Of ice mines beyond Uranus

We made a ritual, homely mess

Mid-day each other sleep cycle,

Huddled orchestra close on aft-deck

To spin contact into survival.

Sweet lovely lady be the bright liquid good bubbling down the locked lattice of stars;

We wanderers cooked with mama the manna of jazz to brook silence of plasma toned thin.

Rather than print our meals then rodent

Dishes into our separate nooks

In UV baths we made a moment

To band small in the vast outer,

With heads nodded inward of asteroids,

The ship sound banks shoo-bopped that bit louder.

Oh the Brecht and Weil where the breath smokes wild at titan glass against kept-out void;

They didn't reckon such style that Ella could top-tease the fellas as in Bobby and Louie doing the Mackie.

Not many things a crew so far

The ice-glazed eye can't tell our sun

From any distant, indifferent star

Agree; so negress goddess miracle

Blazing her mick monick on New York

Yid songbook was our lyrical

Sign of humane radiant remnant divine,

However out here attenuated

In Tartarus tedium of our mine.

It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing  was the ringing to calm ears in the clutch of Jupiter sling;

For someone to watch over me we choose no dumb pillar of deity, but rather sum of all plum in the thriller key of voice.

Oh to be stomping the savoy in the pomp of easy living under earthly sky where her voice leads us real june junket back from vacuum.

You could do worse in fact than settle

For mimicked scat in throat folds grown slack

And brittling finger bones with mettle

Enough left to snap to her cantata.

Give over for morale maintained

Through Ella ritual cruel side of Saturn.

How high the many moons.

Lady don't go Harlem way Milky Way, in ermine and pearls but every world circle has her top o'clock noon burning.

Call out to her Apollo worshipper at corona of musica universalis  for Ella is your mother dearest to intercede with cold outer Kronos the merciless.

∙∙∙

ABOUT UCHE OGBUJI

Uche Ogbuji, more properly Úchèńnà Ogbújí, was born in Calabar, Nigeria. He lived in Egypt, England and elsewhere before settling near Boulder, Colorado. A computer engineer and entrepreneur by trade, his poetry chapbook, Ndewo, Colorado  (Aldrich Press) is a Colorado Book Award Winner, and a Westword Award Winner ("Best Environmental Poetry"). His poems, published worldwide, fuse Igbo culture, European classicism, American Mountain West setting, and Hip-Hop. He co-hosts the Poetry Voice podcast and featured in the Best New African Poets  anthology. On Twitter as @uogbuji.

I SING THE LADY ELECTRIC

By Latonya Pennington

 When I first saw

the android

Cindi Mayweather,

the first thing

I noticed

was her lips.

They looked so red.

Ripe.

Human.

I fantasize.

What would

kissing them

be like?

Would her lips

taste like

fruit?

Would her lips

taste metallic

or electric?

One night,

she performs

in Wondaland.

She is beautiful,

her pompadour

a crown

her smile

revealing secrets.

Her tuxedo

a uniform

without being uniform.

Her dancing  

a thunderstorm

that crackles and pops.

Sparks jump

from her to us.

True selves emerge

 like butterflies

from a cocoon.

My outfit becomes

a lavender tux & skirt,

diamonds nails,

short hair

that slays.

Sometimes,

she slows down

time and space

with a ballad.

Her voice

zero gravity

we float

like astronauts.

Couples slow dance.

I am alone.

Cindi takes my hand.

Once high enough,

we waltz.

Violet stars

many moons

become spotlights.

I gaze

into Cindi's eyes

see blue grey skies

time constantly shifting.

Cindi kisses me

her lips

sweet strawberries

tingling electricity.

The concert ends.

Cindi says

Be free!

Be free

inside and out!

Violet stars wink

in agreement

guiding me home.

∙∙∙

ABOUT LATONYA PENNINGTON

Latonya Pennington is a Black non-binary queer poet from Troy, AL. Their poetry has appeared in Scribes of Nyota ,  Argot  magazine, and Linden Avenue  literary magazine, among others.

night chimes

By Lisa Allen-Agostini

moon sweeps silver

on bay tree bark

breeze tickles music

[tink-tink-tinkle]

from gallery chimes

have you sprinkled magic on me?

rendered me useless to other pursuits?

night air steals my smoke

and only you matter, somehow

I am eclipsed

you loom everywhere

nothing speaks anymore

unless it sighs your name

I exhale

my nimbus invisible

I am afraid to find you

if I find you

I might lose you

if I lose you

I might die

I dance on strings

you don’t know you hold

your absence is huge

 [tink-tink-tinkle]

a wind chime in the night

is amused

at my plight, laughing

you are cold as darkness

and I, Hamelin’s oldest child

∙∙∙

ABOUT LISA ALLEN-AGOSTINI

Lisa Allen-Agostini is a writer and editor from Trinidad and Tobago. She is the author of the YA novels Home Home  (Papillote Press, 2018) and The Chalice Project  (Macmillan Caribbean, 2008). She co-edited and contributed to the crime fiction collection Trinidad Noir  (Akashic Books, 2008). Her collection of poems Swallowing the Sky  (Cane Arrow Press, 2015) followed her self-publication at age 18 of Something to Say , a collection of poems and one story.

Special thanks to this quarter’s donors:

Cynthia Lovett, Bethan Scott, Jo Lindsay Walton, Tasha Lennhoff

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