Mama Arachne, a short story

Fiction, Short Stories

MAMA ARACHNE, a short story by Jean M. Hodges

PART ONE: BABY STORIES 

Mama Arachne’s tapestries were always beautiful, but I’m guessing you already knew that. 

Even the white folks had to admit to it to themselves after a while — even if they still hemmed and hawed at the amateurishness of its unique design, grumbled on about how clunky the yarn looked and how cheap the fabric feels to the touch.

Even after the old days were over and the most of the young folk made their way up to the cities up North, Mama Arachne carried her grandmother’s secrets with her feeling the magic in the sewing, patching and stitching and knitting that had gotten her foremothers out of the underground and home to freedom.

 Or at least that what her Grandma Webb had always said. 

There was always a reminder of the family spirits somewhere on their sewing, and Mama Arachne’s family had a heart with a dagger going through it, a common sign in honor of their family mother spirit — though it was made up all decorative and silly to throw off any non-believers, not in the know.

There was a cross stitched somewhere near the heart, just in case.

Now, Grandma Webb had never had the chance to learn much words and letters, and even the poor whites who sat on as if they were still masters on their granddaddy’s lands couldn’t muster much else than the dialect of the mammies that raised their ancestors in their more opulent, cotton king family histories. But Mama Arachne had went to one of the schoolhouse shacks that the government had plopped down for the black kids into after the slaves were freed, and as she slowly and surely read the words out loud, Mama Arachne and Grandma Webb had gathered what they could from the poster itself, even if the long-winded white folks sounded a bit more uppity than they needed to. There were trains going North. And Mama Arachne would get on one.

“I don’t trust white folks up North or down South. But these crops are my curse, baby girl. As soon as I get this debt off my back, I’ll meet you up there.”

Soon after, Grandma Webb had asked around to see what other kids were getting on one of those city trains. A few weeks later, Mama Arachne was in a rickety railcar with a suitcase in too-tight braids, her best church dress, and clean patent shoes, squished between a girl named Cindy, who always dozed off during church study, and Martha, a girl who Mama Arachne had knew had a rich white daddy stashed away somewhere, and guessed she was going up North to meet him. The three of them, lost and exhausted and dressed in their Sunday best, huddled together to doze off in loud him and the rhythm of the train itself, them and their dress ruffles the only soft and pretty things on the hard moving seats. 

Mama Arachne would do that dress up, slipping her children and grandchildren into it long after Grandma Webb had passed. “If you sniff on it,” Mama Arachne would say, “it still smells a little like lye, lavender water, cigarettes and liquor.”

Mama Arachne didn’t talk too much about her first years up North. She was barely thirteen when she got here and the would was plenty enough trouble for black girls at that age without trying to stir up any trouble. There was a boarding house with a tight-lipped, ashy-skinned church lady called Miss Suzy, who encouraged them to drop the twange in their voices and “speak proper if you ever wanna make money like the white folks”. As soon as Mama Arachne was big enough to work, Miss Suzy sent her off to work in white folks home, big houses with sprawling lawns that would have looked like one of the people from one of those moving pictures had it not been just across the street from where she was living at the time. Most of the time she was put to work cleaning those big houses, straightening up their messy bedrooms or minding their messy babies. All that cleaning up after them ended after the wandering eyes of the white ladies husbands – and of married boyfriends- that resulted in a burn down her back with a scar that would flare up on colder days. 

After all was said and done, Mama Arachne laid a pack of cigarettes down on at her family altar, took a shot of moonshine for herself and hoped for the best. 

From then on, Mama could mostly do sitting work, leading her to factories where she would put little white dolls back together to basement work where embarrassed white girls would hand her their girdles and dresses, as if each rip, tear and stain would reveal their lack of scruples. 

Eventually Mama Arachne got up enough money and courage to get out from under Mama Suzy’s little in-house congregation, Mama Arachne got her own place in an apartment at the edge of town, cooped up with another girl that washed white lady’s laundry with material so tissue-thin that their drawers seemed to flare up over their hanging place over the radiators. By then, Mama Arachne was eighteen, too full-grown for Miss Suzy to keep in a nursery or send to youth Bible study, there was no reason for Miss Suzy to keep her around, except maybe to patch up her skirt holes. Anyways, Miss Suzy was caught in bed with a church deacon around that time as well, so perhaps freeing Mama Arachne was some sort of repentance for her. She was too proud ever to give out a confession. 

In her own little apartment, Mama Arachne fell in love with the girlfriend who did the laundry – in love when they kissed on the back porch with only soft moonlight and dime-store soda pops to keep them company, out of love when that same girlfriend packed up one morning and moved back in her long-forgotten husband down South, begging her to come back and promising her a big house with a proper garden once she got home, one she could never grow in North where it could turn warm as fast as it did cold. The laundry girl only left behind half a bottle of sweet liquor and her own part of the rent wrapped in a letter stamped with lipstick kisses and leaky tears that blurred at the edges of the scrawl. Mama Arachne cashed that in and moved into somewhere even smaller, taking the perfume with her on the way out. 

Another heartbreak came in the form of, of course, a husband – that first husband smelled of whiskey and white men’s cologne and a deep, misremembered twange that reminded Mama Arachne of home almost, making her miss Grandma Webb even more. Mama Arachne would stay with that man for a good ten years, having three babies by him and loving on him as much as she could, as much as he would beat on her. She left that first husband, leaving her with no rent money this time around and three babies to hold onto her skirts. 

After that, Mama Arachne had to think fast. After that, Mama Arachne started sewing again. 

And Mama Arachne’s tapestries were beautiful, but I’m guessing you already knew that they’d get her into trouble. 

And her hot, faithful family spirit looked on, watchful and frowning as she lit a match and brought a cigarette to her own dark, thick lips. The heat was broiling over, and Mama Arachne could feel it’s tingle going down her back.

Miss Faustine Marquis was one of those fine, foreign ladies that sunk into her own whiteness as easy as the buttercream on the hotcakes her own brown ladies served her every Sunday before church. If she wasn’t a steadfastly modern and Christian woman, she might have admitted to the pagan malediction she carried somewhere deep in her blood, but Miss Faustine had stomped it out with prayers and crosses, and there wasn’t much the enchantments of her ancestors could do but supply her with a sort of low level glamour that made the spoiled milk of her soul seem like rich champagne in the right conditions. 

When left you left her family history totally up to her, Miss Faustine would have said she reigned all the way down from far-off French nobility, her family only ending up in the US after a terrible coup, but from the way her thick patois floated in her throat it was more likely she was minded by Louisiana fisherman than any kind of discount Marie Antoinette. 

Still, Miss Faustine Marquis had money, and one of favorite hobbies was sewing and designing clothes. When her own daughters were young, she’d dress them up like the dolls of a Cinderella fairytale, watching all her friends ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the little porcelain marvels dancing around in their mother’s dressing. 

Of course, Missy Tina hardly ever needed to sew herself, merely waving a hand and showing off the drawings among the ready and will help she had at her beck and call, but while she hardly ever did the bloody needlework that came with her designs, she’s the one that orchestrated the magic, and that’s all that really mattered. 

Miss Faustine Marquis first heard of Mama Arachne from her much-devoted help that milled around her house – or else, the lovely Missy Tina saw Mama Arachne’s scarf tied on the head of a teenage worker-girl tending to her china one sunny morning. 

The girl was dark and scrawny thing, hardly much to look at on her best and brightest days. However, on the morning that Missy Tina found her, even as she was adorned in a simple honey-yellow dress and scarf, the girl looked like the lost fairy princess; bright and beautiful in a kind of Africana glamour that Miss Faustina’s icy, Anglo-Saxon complexion could never reach. And the thought that this simple little black girl’s dressing could outdo even her own loveliest, silk-wrapped creations made her feel childish and gaudy. 

The girl was still dusting and at her goblets when Missy Tina stood over that morning, ready to tug the offending off her thick, coily head and accuse the girl of something, of anything…

The girl in the yellow dress nearly flinched as she felt her lady’s well-manicured nails across the patchy, yellow fabric with a disgusted awe. Or at least, that’s what to poor girl told us when she came around Mama’s house later. 

“Hey there, baby lamb,” Missy Tina said, smiling against the girl’s shivers. “Can you do me a favor and tell me who made up that pretty little scarf for you?”

Some of the mother spirits are notoriously HOT. Grandma Webb always said you’d have a gatekeeper to act as your intermediary, a soft-hearted guide to make the road between the world of the living and the unliving, but you must keep a hot spirit satiated, less you end up with burnt hands.

A mother spirit had burnt her hands into Mama Arachne’s back when she was born, and the knock that one of her employers gave her seemed to rattle Mama Arachne’s 

On the day that Miss Faustine’s letter was slipped under her door, her daughter Delphine had been rubbing a cream onto her mother’s back to help satiate the burn scorching up and down her spine.

Normally her two boys, a set of brown-skinned twins named Fabien and Gabriel, had been perfectly apt little secretaries for their mother, sorting out the dull mail of bills and family letters to get to their subscriptions of little cereal box toys and the funny papers. The sticky hands gave Mama Arachne something smile about, plus it made the bad news easier to bear when the white folks prefer to stick in with her late night cigarettes or morning coffee. However, the boys were out doing some shopping for their mother that night, which left the two ladies alone to do some bedside bonding. 

Mama Arachne never liked her babies going out so late, but with the ache in her back and the promise of candy calling them meant the twins Fabe and Gabe were down to follow the Devil to the end of Hell if it meant they could meant they could chew on sugar cane once they got there.

All was quiet in Mama Arachne’s house, the only sounds being until Delphine cried “Mama, look! The mail came!” , and Mama Arachne had pulled her dress shirt down to examine the pile of enveloped that seeped it’s way under the front door of their scruffy little apartment.

Miss Faustine’s letter glowed up from the door frame like blood from an open wound. Mama frowned, before dragging a sharp finger across the top of the envelope and pulled the letter out. 

Delphine peeked around her mother’s shoulder, frowning as she perched her head mother’s shoulder. “Is this for a party, Mama?” 

Mama Arachne frowned. “I…don’t think so, baby. I think it’s for a job….”

Delphine lit up, a big grin spreading on her face, her crooked baby teeth cropping through like dandelions on a warm, summer day. “You got a dress order, Mama!”

Mama Arachne rolled her eyes. “Maybe, baby.” Delphine frowned and Mama Arachne caught herself. “It might just be another bill from Mrs. Wilson downstairs. You know grabby she’s been getting about the rent nowadays.”

Mama Arachne smiled, giving her daughter a kiss on the cheek, chiding her. “Lemme read through this first.”

Delphine nodded, before bouncing off the wash her mother’s salve off her hands. 

Mama Arachne was still reading the letter at the windowsill when her sons stumbled in with 

the groceries. Gabe and Fabe’s stick, candy-filled cheeks got rough kisses from their mama too, though they were old enough now to be equal parts grateful and embarrassed. 

As soon as all her kids were down, she took out a cigarette and sat on a fire escape to examine the letter again.  

“A gentle, friendly competition”, it said. “Just to show off that girls from down South can make just as pretty dresses as these Northern ladies. A friendly, feminine wager. Lady to lady. Just, be sure to come through the back gate, sweetie. I don’t want them to think I’m entertaining too many colored folks.”

At these words, as Mama Arachne, she nearly burnt that letter up under her stick and flung that perfumed, frilly thing out into the street below. But still, something was stopping her. 

Something about the offer the letter spoke about stuck in her mind, and she knew that it wouldn’t let her go. The opportunity had been one of a lifetime, something big and unexpected to give Mama Arachne pause.

She knew that she worked hard, but this meant that she wasn’t at home with her kids as much she liked. The sewing jobs had given her a chance to rest her back, and cleaning jobs gave her enough care to cover the rent and keep her kids fed, but it didn’t leave much room for grandeur.

Mama Arachne was long past that little wide-eyed girl that had come up North on a train in a church dress that she used to be, but she still did have dreams. As much promise as the North had held, and as many opportunities that it afforded her, she was alone much of the time, mostly due to the other black mamas of the neighborhood also having men to mind, babies to feed, white folks to work for. 

Mama Arachne’s dreams might have just been flowerpots on the windowsill compared to most other folks she knew, but she still had them, and she still watered them, hoping that they’d sprout, their pretty leaves popping up grinning. 

Mama Arachne wanted something to bring the community together, something to connect her own people with one another. Her best customers were always the brown girls, giggling and wide eyes as she spun gold out of their old dresses’ hay. If she took this offer, even if she didn’t end up winning against this white ladies goons, she could at least use the second-place prize money to get the word out about her. She could maybe even open a shop, get her kids to some decent learning, make more dresses for some pretty black girls and put more smiles on their faces…

Mama Arachne took one last big drag of her cigarette before folding the letter up and slipping it into her bra for safekeeping.

As she slipped into bed beside her daughter that night, Mama found herself dreaming of tapestries and dresses.

And also of blood, though this wound was fresh, no sweet-smelling salve to cover soak out the pain.

Not yet, anyhow. 

Miss Faustine was planted at her window when she saw Mama Arachne’s letter arrive with the mailman a few days later. 

Snuggled under her silk blanket, the milk-skinned woman smiled as she thought of this old dirt-brown bird embarrassing herself while she created her own dresses into the art that could even make the ancient Francophone bourgeoisie jealous. 

The hot spirit burnt along her back as Mama Arachne made her way up to the back of Miss Faustine’s big, bougie house nearly a month later. Her little sewing kit and bundle of cloth sat like shield and sword as entered what she assumed Mama Faustine’s little kitchen, her flat work shoes sounding like a waterfall as she plopped along the floor, Mama Arachne scanning over her bundle to see if the caught any other brown faces around, cleaning or cooking or maybe even coming around to see who this was coming through the kitchen. 

“Oh! You’re here!” said a skinny sugar-brown girl of sixteen, reaching out her arms to grab the cloth bundle from Mama Arachne’s tired arms. She was long and lean and reminded Mama Arachne a little of her own daughter, right down to the ooh-ing and aww-ing over the cloth bundle to the honey-yellow dress she wore with a matching yellow scarf. 

“I know you!” Mama Arachne cried, her own eyes brightening with recognition, and the girl smiled, slightly embarrassed.

“Yeah, my you used to work with my Mama, ma’am.” the girl in yellow dress said. “She told me you made her this dress.”

“You’re Cindy’s daughter?” Mama Arachne whispered, extremely surprised. The girl nodded.  

“Yeah, erm, she got kicked out my grandaddy’s house cuz he wouldn’t claim her, and she was so ashamed that she didn’t say who she really was when she saw you last”

“Oh baby,” Mama Arachne said. “I’m so sorry-” But the girl waved her off.

“I never met my grandaddy, but any man who don’t claim his own baby can’t be a good one. Besides, Mama’s all shacked up with some mulatto guy now. She’s fine being pretty and taking his money if need be.”

Mama Arachne smiled and nodded. “Well, why are you working here, then?”

The young girl shrugged. “I need money, too. The mulatto guy is one of Missy Tina’s friends, so my Mama thought it would look good if I did some work in this white lady’s house.” They’d made it into an empty sitting room by this point, and the young girl had laid Mama Arachne’s cloth bundle on a gaudy couch nearby.

Mama Arachne nodded. “Well, we all gotta eat baby. Say, I forgot to ask your name!”

The young girl smiled, “Cynthia, like my mom. Everyone calls me baby, though.”

Mama Arachne smiled. “Well, thanks for the help there, Miss Baby.”

The girl blushed, grabbing Mama Arachne’s hands in gratitude. “Well, it’s wonderful to finally meet you ma’am.”

Then, hitching up her dress, Baby said “I’d best get Missy Tina, she would want to know you’ve made it.”

“No need, Baby Lamb,” came Missy Tina’s voice from behind them. “I saw y’all rushing in from the kitchen. Those work shoes of yours do make quite a ruckus.”

Baby blushed, putting her head down ashamed. “Sorry, Missy Tina.”

Mama Arachne caught the sickness in Missy Tina’s smile, and her face set in a blank frown as Missy Tina took a seat in the plush pink chair beside her.

“All settled in here, Baby?”

“Yes, Missy Tina”

“Well, go fetch the tea now”

“Yes, Missy Tina”

Mama Arachne shot Baby a sympathetic smile as the yellow thing skittered past. Then, she was in the room with Missy Missy Tina, and she noticed the white lady looking her up and down in a sort of ill-concealed disappointment. 

“Well, it’s mighty fine to meet you, Missy Tina” Mama Arachne said to break her stares and the silence. Missy Tina looked Mama Arachne straight in the eye, as if she was smacked away from her favorite picture show. 

“Well, likewise, Miss…Nene? I’m sure.”

Mama Arachne smiled. “Well, let’s not waste time, Missy Tina. Would you like me to get started on your measurements?”

Missy Tina almost doubled over with laughter. “No, no, no, you silly goose. I’m not wearing your clothes – you need to look good wearing your own! Also, I’ll need a tapestry from you.”

Mama Arachne blinked. “I don’t make dresses for myself…isn’t this a competition?”

“A friendly  competition, yes. But it’s meant to show off our best selves, and well…well, I just wanted to give you the space to practice.”

Mama Arachne blinked again. “Well…okay. I’ll need a few weeks to finish up my dress and everything,”

Missy Tina grinned. “Excellent. I’ll get started as well. How do you feel about a summer debut, Miss Nene?”

Mama Arachne’s warm and loving grin cut through the ice of Missy Tina’s eyes like sunlight to a hibernating bear, ushering in a spring when the beast would rather roll over, dozing. 

“That would do just fine, Missy Tina! Let’s both do our best, okay?” Mama Arachne said, bowing her head as stately as any queen might be. And Mama Arachne smiled as the tapestry of her children and the night sky floated through her mind. Missy Tina frowned, wanting to hurry Baby up in retrieving her sewing needles.

END OF PART ONE

PART TWO: THE SEWING CONTEST

Mama Arachne was skilled at sewing, but I’m guessing you already knew this was true. Madame Faustine (or Missy Tina as she deigned herself to be called), watched the dark-skinned black woman’s fingers handle the fabric, needle and thread with disgusted awe, even as she looked down at the other woman’s callused hands and rag-tag pile of fabrics with snooty self-vindication. 

They’d been at it for weeks, Missy Tina playing around with price guides and shilling her shiniest pennies to get the best fabrics, and Mama Arachne, popping in at the same time every other day, always bringing in an old patch or pulling out a new piece of fabric to add on to her dress with precision and ease.

Well, really. 

How did this — this colored woman — make it all look so goddamn easy? This dirty, low-down Negress, with her knotted hair and set thick lips and eyes wide and brown like a baby’s – how the hell did she always come in, looking so happy and comfortable with her own work, no matter how raggedy it looked? 

Well, really. 

Baby had took a shine to her, coming up as Mama Arachne’s little helper even as Missy Tina took up more and more of her time, keeping her cleaning and sweeping the fabrics off the floor, making her hem at skirts to keep from looking over the Mama Arachne’s work with such admiration.

Well, really. 

Missy Tina absolutely HATED how much Mama Arachne came to her house, too. Missy Tina was a great overseer to her own fancy dresses, the type to peek in and approve the fabrics and designs, leaving others to do the busy work of actually making the dresses up. But she soon found her fingers pricked with the pin marks of the sewing needle, grumbling at the pain she felt as Mama Arachne’s hands seemed to glide over the mismatched fabric with relative ease. As soon as Mama Arachne collected her cookie tin full of sewing supplies, 

Missy Tina threw her own sewing plies down in a hissy huff. 

She had expected Mama Arachne to get more tired than this , frustrated than this, sad than this, ASHAMED THAN THIS. This whole competition was going to be farcical on the other woman’s part, and for her to even suppose that she had the chance to win was….

Well.

Baby had run up some ointment and got water for her, tending to her fingers with a blank look on her face. 

“Baby, tell me this. Is Miss Nene’s dresses prettier than mine?”

Baby, who had been rubbing plasters over her employer’s alabaster fingers, looked up in confusion, lost at what to do.

“Well, Missy Tina. You know…you know, Missy Tina? No one can make prettier dresses than you can. They almost feel like…like a storybook.”

Missy Tina smiled, releasing her hand from the young girls as she preened her own stringy hair in the mirror, lovingly propping the dull, flat strands into a rollers.

“Am I the queen in that storybook?” Missy Tina asked, almost laughing.

Baby nodded politely. “Yes, Missy Tina. You’re very own story.”

Missy Tina nodded, shooing the young girl away, assured that whatever pile of rags Mama Arachne was stringing together was no match for the piece she could cook up. 

But then Mama Arachne came back, still sewing away with a smile on her face. And Missy Tina frowned and looked to the side, holding in the anger that this black woman could ever suppose that she could turn her pile of rags into a Cinderella gown.  

Well.

Mama Arachne was REVITALIZED. Mama Arachne was usual one for survival and keeping her head down, but something about this competition and being in this big ole house making her newest tapestry lit a furnace in her belly. As soon as she got home from Missy Tina’s house that first day, Mama Arachne had ran home, digging through nooks and crannies to get started. 

Mama Arachne had decided to stick to something simple: a giant quilt tapestry to deal with the odd mish-mash between the fabrics she gathered. Whenever she could get a minute, she opened up shop in the little passageway that Missy Tina had set out for her, and got to work building the tapestry up, up, up, her needle and thread going faster and smoother than any of Missy Tina’s sewing machines ever could, as easy as they were on her hands on the harder days. 

Missy Tina poked her head in time to time, often going in to unlock her art cupboards, pulling out her piles of fabric to examine and to have her little entourage to ohh and ahh at, but her most constant companion was Baby, the teen scullery maid tending to Mama Arachne with any cakes or tea or biscuits that could be completely snuck to her without much trouble. 

Mama Arachne appreciated the company, and Baby was a pretty sight too, adding rulers to straighten out shaky patches and offering suggestion to trim off threads and arrange the kaleidoscope of colors, the janky pieces of fabric slipping next to each other like the planks of a rose-cut windowpane.

This would never be piece that folks might ever put on their wall or pop into a big fancy museum, but there something homey and familiar about it that made Mama Arachne smile every time she clipped at the pieces she patched together. Even if this bundle of fabric wouldn’t make the star attraction in boutique windows, it might be a fun house blanket to cover herself in every morning, a thing for her children and perhaps her future grandchildren to tease with love and gawk at in admiration, each of them finding a story to tell in the little squares Mama Arachne patched together with gold. 

There was an old patron spirit that held the stars in her hands in this messy, beautiful tapestry and Mama Arachne was simply the sculptor, aiming to bring her patron goddess out.

The tapestry showing might as well have been inside a circus tent, what with the whole get-up Missy Tina decided to throw together. 

Missy Tina had decided to host the showing in her mansion ballroom, but as fancy as her little dining hall was on it’s off days, it was a mighty sight now. Billowing curtains were hung at the corners of the room, and the chairs were set all in a line on either side, as if their sewing work was meant to be presented as the main course at ravenous dinner table. There were dinner tables in the room, too, giant, gaudy things boasting the richest nibbles and drinks that would set any uppity rich folks heat go all a-flutter. On her way in, with her bundle firmly folded in an old pocketbook, Mama Arachne made a point to smile and nod at the weight staff, looking smart and slick in their work uniforms. The maids and manservants all nodded back, all grateful for the courtesy of all being in on the in-joke of being the help.

Baby helped her set her table up, adorning it with a vase of red and gold flowers to match the colors in her dress and headscarf. It was a warm, summer day, so the dress was a loose, flowy thing that covered up Mama Arachne up enough to look presentable for any wandering eyes but slack enough she could bend over and sit down if she ever needed to. 

Looking back, Mama Arachne was glad for that loose dress. It was one of her most useful creation, what with providing her something simple and pretty to her figure — as well as enough leg room for her to run in. 

But not today. 

Today, at least for the moment, Mama Arachne was safe, standing firm in her spot, front and center and ready to show off her work. 

Missy Tina arrived in a big ole evening gown of a dress, a young girl getting ready for her own promenade, a lady ready to stun in her debut. The dress she wore was such a wedding cake, made up in layers and layers of so much sweet-colored fabric and lace that Mama Arachne felt mighty underdressed by comparison. 

Still, Mama Arachne smiled at the few compliments the other black women through her, some even going so far to adjust her scarf and straighten up her skirt to add to her own personal beauty. And Missy Tina frowned, moving her own skirts, causing the sound claws on pavement as she dragged herself to her own little stand, ready to show off her own creation and shake Mama Arachne out of the spot she had rooted for herself.

“Ready to start soon, Miss Nene? The guests should be arriving soon — Oh dear! I’m sorry for not mentioning it sooner, but it just got so busy…”

But then Mama Arachne smiled. And then Missy Tina.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble for you, Missy Tina. I’m ready when you are.”

Missy Tina looked Mama Arachne, staring at her to see any sign of deception or anger or trickery in her dark eyes, but Mama Arachne gave her big ole grin that nearly made her slap the woman on sight.

“Fine then, Miss Nene. Fine. Just — don’t hold onto Baby too much, I might need her to pass out the refreshments soon and I can’t have her yapping to you all day, can I?”

Missy Tina turned around, expecting to see a deep blush or a stammering drawl come upon the other woman, some sort of remorse of bellyaching to make up for whatever pain she might have caused. 

But all she saw was Baby, handing Mama Arachne a fan and a some manservant’s cup to sip on some water, again — again — with the two of them already forgetting her. 

Missy Tina turned away, snapping her fingers for her serving girls to set up her mannequin and pull down the dress she had prepared. 

It had all been so quiet at first, so simple. 

A threadbare calm before the ripped sheets of the coming storm. 

The ballroom where Missy Tina and Mama Arachne had been slated to show off their newest creations was quickly filled with the contest guests and judges (all of them arriving under Missy Tina’s own personal invitation, of course). 

Mama Arachne was surprised to see a few familiar faces in the growing crowd surrounding her, catching sight of a few old clients from her early days in the Northern City amongst the ruddy white elite Missy Tina ran with. 

Now, Missy Tina was a powerful lily-white lady of the lily-white elite, and had been an American-born princess almost from birth; filthy rich by her dead husband’s money and bolstered up by her own family’s money, even Missy Tina had to admit deep down in herself that she was often too high up on her own personal throne of plushness to come down and mingle with her own peers much, whether they be new money or noveau riche. On the other hand, Mama Arachne had no qualms about such things; these folks in the audience around her were the people whose houses Mama Arachne cleaned, who’s children she’d looked after, who’s business she’d minded, who’s clothes she’d tended and to or sewn up. 

Mama Arachne had watched these people tear each other apart and it was often her job to pick up their pieces and patch them back together, Cinderella gowns and all. 

By the looks on their faces, seeing Mama Arachne stood in front of the as stately as any folklorish queen, ready to show off her own personal magic in her own personal art — well, they shivered under gaze, chilly as demons in church.

Course, Mama Arachne was poor. What the hell could she know about nothing?

Missy Tina tutted, determined to have everyone’s attention back on her. And that’s when the messiness really began. 

Of course the audience loved Missy Tina’s work. Missy Tina, being the lady of the house, had decided that she would be the one to present her work first, so it would have been downright rude to not acknowledge all the hard work at all when she so graciously made it up for their ready consumption. 

The audience took Missy Tina’s beautiful, overstuffed gown in, gawking and clapping and praising it up and down like it was a morning glory seeing sunlight after a thousand nights of rain. Watching Missy Tina soak it all in, Mama Arachne felt a bit silly with her old pocketbook and raggedy old guilt, feeling that it would hardly be enough to feed the attention of the masses.

But she pressed on, flattening out her free-flowing dress and making sure her scarf was still properly tied on her coily scalp, beaming with pride in her own bravery as Missy Tina turned to her with a coy smile. 

“Your turn, Miss Nene,” Missy Tina said, sashaying out of the ballroom and into her seat in the audience, soft and primped up and ready made for her. 

“The floor is yours.” 

Mama Arachne nodded, opening up her pocketbook to pull out her quilt, spreading it out onto the table like a golden fleece ready to send its enchantment to people in the space all around her. It seemed to even glow in the light, and whether it be the sunlight all around or the flowers spilled out or even the table’s shape showing it off, the quilt was a lovely thing, and Mama Arachne’s already-wide smile seemed to glow with an otherworldly sweetness.

And that’s all it took. One look at her quilt and one look at her joy. 

One mass of people, milk-white and dirt brown to stare her down and gawk and gobble up her work like the worst sirens of the red, bloody sea, dragging her down, down down into the depths and into nothing.

Just eyes. Just anger. Just staring. 

That’s all.

That’s all it took. That was the end of her. 

A cold shiver ran down Mama Arachne’s spine as she looked up to see every black and white eye trained on her, ready to pounce, teething gnashing and the fine, patchy feast in front of them.

END OF PART TWO

PART THREE: MOTHER LOVE

There would be no babies to rub salves down her hard, hot back tonight.

Three days since Missy Tina’s house, since a pile of patchy cloth sent the rich white lady showing off and bawling and forming a mob of gentle brown ladies and white sirs around her to cushion her fall and dry her tears.

Mama Arachne had really meant no harm — the piece she had patched together didn’t even any white people in it! But the little brown baby and mama that Mama Arachne had stitched together and seemed to ripped through the poison honey and begrudging grins Madame Faustine had sent her way these past few days. 

The result was as congenial as it was spiteful: Mama Arachne packed up her things, and left the white lady’s house in a hurry. No one said anything, inwardly thinking that the trash had decided to take herself out and rushing her out the door so she won’t stink up the place in the process. 

What Mama Arachne hadn’t expected was that this would leak out into the neighborhood, though she did feel like a fool for not realizing it earlier. Madame Faustine had money and moneyed friends, and those moneyed friends probably didn’t take lightly to their friend’s ego being bruised by some colored woman not good enough ever to scrub their drawers.

As a result, Mama Arachne was damaged goods for the clients around her, marked by the competition that she so foolishly was drawn into and out of work for the time being. 

In her fear, Mama Arachne sent them to Baby’s house a little ways off until she got their house back into a settled state. 

And they really might have had everything settled and quiet again –until she got the letter with eviction notice on the door, signed with Missy Tina’s lipstick kiss in the corner.

Mama Arachne felt like a dog beaten into a corner where the only thing she could really do was whine and beg, beg, beg as she tried not to get beat no more.

She just didn’t want to be beat no more. 

Mama Arachne spent a good day crying to herself and sucking on a cigarette til her ashtray filled up like dirt in a graveyard, dry and ashy and burying something.

Mama Arachne got up in her robe and bonnet, wiped off her face now dry with her own tears and got up, collecting herself as she faced Grandma Webb’s photograph staring warmly at her from it’s perch on her family altar.

“Oh, Nana…” Mama Arachne murmured, straightening up the altar cloth, candles and beer with gentle precision. “I’ve made a whole mess of everything. I know you always told me to be careful in white lady’s houses, now look at me, being too afraid even to have my babies in my house anymore.”

Mama Arachne bit back another sob as she looked through her fingers at Grandma Webb’s picture in shame and despair. Her grandmother just smiled back at her, eyes black and hopeful through the picture frame.

“I mean, all this fuss over a black lady’s picture? I mean, Dantor isn’t much of a looker…and she is a tough ole bean, but she’s nothing to be afraid of…” Mama Arachne had been pacing around her bedroom floor at this point, before spotting the tapestry that had started all this fuss, rolled up and hidden away underneath her old headboard. 

Unwrapping it, the patchy visage of Ezrulie Dantor stared up at her, her scarred face frowning and serious, her baby child in her arms as soft as any Madonna-figure on a Christian church wall.

“…I….didn’t mean no harm, Lord forgive me. But harm was done, and now I gotta get us out. Just…I can’t do it with white people’s ways no more. What does that mean, Nana?”

Looking between Ezrulie Dantor in her hands and Grandma Webb on her headboard, Mama Arachne felt once again like that lost little Southern girl on the train tracks rolling up North to something better all alone.

Mama Arachne was just all alone again. 

But…was that really so bad? 

Mama Arachne looked at her tapestry again, and hugged Dantor close to her. The heat on her back sizzled down her spine before going cool, going quiet.

Smiling up at her Grandma Webb on her headboard, Mama Arachne wrapped her damned tapestry around her shoulders, an idea coming to her mind.

“…I guess we weren’t really made for white folks, huh, Nana?” 

Tapping Grandma Webb’s picture with a fingernail, Mama Arachne ushered a small prayer before taking another swig of her cigarette, getting to work.

“Well, time to get the babies. We got work to do”

END OF PART THREE

PART FOUR: BABY STORIES (PT. 2)

Ruby Blue had grown up with a Mama Dantor hanging over her bed. It was apparently a family heirloom, with her play Auntie Baby always claiming that she’d seen it stitched by her great grandmama herself, passing her the patches of clothes and fabric as stitched it all together. 

Ruby could never understand what the significance of the piece really was — in her Grandmother Delphine’s shop, black girls were always honored and made into pretty little princesses of their own domains. So, while a portraiture of their family goddess was just artistic overkill to Ruby at this point, she understood it mattered to their family, so she kept it hanging up in her bedroom, a flag of family pride even though she didn’t get the point of all the waving all of it yet.

Of course, I’d love to someday tell my sweet Ruby Blue her great grandmama’s story as I’d told all of you; that I’d gotten the tapestry from my own mama as she’d gotten from hers, and that someday my Ruby-girl would get Mama Arachne’s tapestry from me too (if I get the story out quick enough for Ruby Blue to stop fidgeting enough to listen). 

But for now, she’ll just have to take my word that her great Grandma Mama Arachne’s tapestries were beautiful — and the proof is literally up there, a stitched legend brightening up bedroom walls; a quilted family tree, beautiful and strange and strong.

THE END

Original publish year: 2021

(c) Jean M. Hodges

________________________________________________________________________________________

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All Wild Hair, a short story

Fiction, Short Stories

TW: For racism, sexism and homophobia

All Wild Hair, a short story by Jean M. Hodges

If there was one thing Annie was an expert at, it was clean up.

Antoinette was all wild hair, which normally wouldn’t have been a problem, what with Annie being who she was and all.

But the thin layer of hair that sprouted along her legs, back and forearms after she came back to herself always seemed to put Annie ill at ease, and as soon as she sewed all of her torn t-shirts back together, Annie took a dip in a warm bath to loosen any stiff muscles and unwanted hair follicles she’d gotten from another wild night in the forest.

Armed with a fresh razor, Antoinette would use whatever latent yoga skills she had to get ever pesky inch that bothered her off of her,  like she did while navigating the prickles of the thorn bushes she had to pee in every other week.

This was easier in high school when Antoinette had some time to herself while her mother was out sharing a six-pack with the bums that hung around the porch, and  bathroom time in an apartment that didn’t include four other people.

But this was college, and privacy was found more in stranger’s houses than her own dorm, and being a brand-spanking new adult meant Annie had to learn to deal with her hair around other people’s schedules’.

Annie didn’t mind, having lived with other people in her own house after all. But these were all white girls, skinny and pretty and basic in that homogenous way that pretty white girls can be, used to being doted on and taking up space and nosy as hell as Annie tried to get herself back together on after-moon days.

A werewolf roommate, wasn’t it wonderful? The guys they brought over sometimes would always be curious enough to take a look and would be disappointed to just see a puffy-headed, dark-skinned black girl sitting there, instead of anthropomorphic wolf beast.

*~*

Mornings could be the worst.

“Wow, how does your hair get so big?” the blonde roommate would ask.

“Gravity” Annie would reply, sneaking her razors into the bathroom and locking the door behind her.

“Soooo, do you consider yourself more human, or dog?” the redhead said, reaching out to reach a kinky tendril that Annie had just twisted out.

“Neither. I’m a werewolf. It’s kinda me all the time.” Annie would say, subtly smacking her hand away as she went back to highlighting her textbook.

“How’d you get your tan like that?” the brunette asked, as Annie shaved her legs over a garbage can full of shaving cream and water.

“I’m Afro-Latino,” Annie replied, rinsing her razor off in the water and shaving into another line, going about her business. “I think my parents are from the Bronx, but my moms moved to Jersey City cuz the rent was cheaper and there was more forest nearby for whenever she turned. Thanks for noticing, though.”

*~*

It sucked more when it was the morning after. Why did Annie have to feel embarrassed for spending a night killing squirrels and shit? Not for not killing squirrels, but for sneaking back into her dorm with leaves in her hair, and covering up the holes in her shirt as her roommates’ were high as fuck daintily ogling at the dark brown of her boobs peeking through Annie’s shredded shirt?

White girls love to experiment with drugs and dick and shit like it was new, and Annie had to stop an intruding hand from coming up on her bed at the three in the morning (more than a few times), and despite their many spirited attempts (“Aww, cmon! It’s not real if it’s a girl”), Antoinette had rejected any amorous advances of the people she was sharing a living space with. Outside that living space…

*~*

Jared was nice. They came from an old vampire family, so Annie knew they came from some kind of money. It showed in their car, and their ability to pay for their own streaming services, and ability to pay for clothes and textbooks without having to dig through old online coupon services.

Annie had met Jared in a figure drawing class, and Annie had to hold back laughs as Jared whispered “Yeah, I’ve seen better” as the models posed and postured on the podium.

Jared was one of those mixed kids who loved to blend themselves between  their ethnicities. Some kind of Puerto Rican. Some kind of Brazilian. Reddish hair and milk white skin making them exotic enough to be called a dish if brought to white family’s table (“Oh, I love your accent!” ) .

However, Annie was armed with her mother’s Afro-Spanglish, so she didn’t hold to Jared’s cutesy bullshit…all the time.

And Jared liked her more for it. Annie’s rough shirts and scarred legs showed the smudges of hood life that Jared was never really privy too. They had only ever heard a gunshot once when driving past the projects last year, and that’s because the family’s nanny was taking them to a fast food place for dinner. Dating a were-girl was certainly to enough to write home about, but fucking a hood chick…well, they could tell stories. There was one problem to get around, though…

“Babe” Jared messaged, and Antoinette was in the middle of a drawing when she got their text.

“Hey, what’s up?” Annie texted back, hands alternating between pencil and keypad.

“How does this dress look on me?” Annie gave a quick glance at Jared in the simple red, strapless number and replied with, “Lovely, honestly, truly”, her sharpened nails tapping against the phone screen like raindrops on a leaky rooftop.

“LOLOLOL, thanks, baby. Hey! What are you gonna do with your hair for tomorrow?”

Annie stopped sketching her dragon’s head to type back, “What do you mean?”

“Well, my parents want to meet you, I was wondering if you were gonna, yknow, do something with it?”

Annie ran a hand over her twist-out with a frown. “What’s wrong with it now?”

With a quick bloop of her phone, Jared messaged back “Well, it’s a little bit nappy. I mean, I know a lot of girls are going for the natural look, but I don’t want them to think you were still picking cotton or something”

Annie paused, focusing on her dragon’s wings as she heard her phone bloop again. “Still there?” Jared texted.

And at first, Annie wants to write back with a “FUCK YOU”. At first, Annie wants to turn off her phone and just finish her goddamn dragon her goddamn commission so she could pay for her books for her goddamn art class. But then she heard her roommate phone-fucking her whatever guy in the next room, and Annie decided she needed to get out more than she needed to stay in.

The full moon was passed anyway, might as well, right?

Better a bum in a nice SUV than on bums on a porch, right? Right?

“Ok, what did you think I should do with it?”

*~*

After a long day of Jared texting about her hair, Antoinette could say with some certainty that she was almost ready.

Shaving took 3 hours, flat-ironing, one.

It took Annie a good forty-five minutes to find the strappy heels that went with the only pretty dress she could afford at the warehouse store, and though Annie winced at the fire and the pain from her legs to her head, she was happy to get out for a bit tonight.

Her roommates giggled as she stumbled in with her one-night boyfriend out of her bedroom door.

It was the redhead, and Annie heard her chirp, “Oh! Annie, are you going out?”

“Yeah”, Annie replied, rubbing the dark lipstick over her lips as her roommate went on.

“I love your hair! It looks pretty down and straight”

And with the bloop in her phone telling her Jared was outside and the disgust in her gut as she adjusted the fancy belt to the blue dress she was wearing, Annie said, “Thank you” before stuffing her only non-shredded purse, turning off her flat-irons and walking out the door, free of her own wild hair and beautiful in her own discomfort.

THE END

Original publish year: 2016

(c) Jean M. Hodges

________________________________________________________________________________________

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Looking Between Hues, a short story

Fiction, Short Stories

TW: Discussions of child loss

Looking Between Hues, a short story by Jean M. Hodges

“I don’t understand, “ I said, and I watched my mother sigh, disappearing into the long, dark hallway to return with a rhombus in hand, coming to sit next to me, fiddling with the jagged stone nervously.

“After our last baby died-“ Mama said, a long while of being quiet, “-your Daddy and I sorta gave up for a while. Having a baby was tough at our age, and for a while, we suspected the spirits were making fun of us for waiting so long to start having babies in the first place.” Mama said, taking a deep breath, breaking into a sad laugh that danced like a set of broken piano keys in the air around them.

 She set the rhombus in the space between us, and it fell with a thump, just a hard piece of rock set against my blanket, waiting for itself to be important.

“We never thought it was funny,” Mama said, catching herself in my vanity mirror to readjust her thick black curls under her sleep-bonnet before she went on.

“I had to burn up every baby that fell out of me. They had my blood,  their rights to the funeral rites, I don’t regret doing that. But…sometimes…I wish they’d lasted longer, just a little bit longer…’cuz, well, they were always dead and buried before I got much of a hold on them, and if they just stayed with me, just a little bit longer, I, well, I- they were always gone by the time they came out of me-“

“What does this gotta do with me?” I cut in, annoyed, shifting impatiently on my squeaky mattress as Mama laughed in reply to my cranky outburst, pulling me into a hug and squeezing me tight.

“I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it!” Mama replied, and I broke into a smile, my stony face cracking against the warmth of Mama’s embrace. Mama squeezed me tight one more time with one buff brown arm, shaking me back and forth with love and laughter before she went on.

“Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnyyyyywwwwwaaaaaaay-” Mama said, letting go of me to pick up the rhombus and set it in her lap. “-as I was sayin’, the babies’ ashes were in the lake by the highway, your Daddy had to go back to work to pay off the doctor and the undertaker, and I had to rest up, get my strength back up and move on and get back to work myself. And, just as I was doing that, a witch popped up to ask me a favor.”

“A witch?” I cried, my voice in a whisper, as if I was afraid the walls were listening in on my mother’s story.

Mama nodded. “Plenty of those down here. Keep to themselves most times. They usually turn up at the change of seasons, and being that it was a harvest time, I wasn’t surprised to find one outside a few days after we burnt the last baby up. She was selling strawberries, and I hadn’t been to the store to get fruit in a while, so I gave her bought some off of her, into the house to get some tea as while I put the strawberries up in the fridge.”

 Mama ran a thumb over the rhombus on her lap, looking kinda sad as she did. I was wondering if she was just getting distracted again, but I think she caught herself, smiling at me in her strange, sad way before going on.

“She asked me about the babies, yknow?” Mama said. “Said she could feel them in the house with me that night. ‘They so small, all they know how to do now is crawl up and down the walls.’, she said. ‘They’ll move on in a month or so, once they get themselves settled on the other side. I think they feel they Mama missing them, maybe they don’t wanna leave’. What could I say to that? She was a witch. They talked to spirits, why not to baby ones? Why not mine?”

I watched my mother wipe some tears off her face, and I sat there, not really knowing what to do or say. But she was holding that rhombus again, and, maybe to distract her-I don’t know, I pointed to it and asked, “What’s that for, Mama? That’s a pretty rock! Where’d you get it from?”

Mama blinked, looking at the hand that held the rock, almost embarrassed. “OH! I almost forgot about this old thing! Had it for about…I don’t know,  about  fourteen, fifteen years now? Long time. The strawberry witch gave it me and- Oh! Right! The witch, you see? I should tell you! Sorry, baby, I keep forgetting.

 Annnnnnnnyway,” Mama said, laying the rhombus back in her lap. “I told the witch I was doing just fine, and I told her to thank you for checking in on the babies for me. And for the strawberries. Both were good to take in. And then she said, ‘I can get one for you, yknow’. And I said, ‘Get what, Miss-we always called witches Miss, even when they married, polite that way- and she said, ‘A baby. I know you’re an older lady now, Miss Rosemary. But you and your husband are good people, and I know a way to get you a baby if you let me.’ “

I held my breath as Mama said, in a low voice, “I told her I couldn’t afford to buy herbs or nothing, and she said she didn’t need that. But she did tell me what she did need.”

“What’s that, Mama?” I asked.

Mama sighed. “Colors”

And I said, “What?”

And Mama said, “Colors. And I told that old strawberry witch, ‘Miss, what on Earth are colors gonna do?’ and she said, ‘Get them to me, and you’ll see’. She left right after, thanking me for the tea and leaving the color list on the kitchen table as she climbed down the fire escape and into the street. “

Mama shrugged her shoulders as if shifting a huge weight on each side before she went on. “Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, pink, black, gray and white, brown, on and on.” Mama recited from memory. “List as long as my arm”

“Rainbow colors?” I asked, and Mama nodded.

“You’re Daddy and I never had a ton of money, “ Mama explained. “-we didn’t paint the house pretty and living in projects, we always felt a little bougie when we had to shop for nice-looking things, folks think you’re putting on airs. But after that witch left, all I could do was sit and look at that list on the kitchen table, and when you’re Daddy got home from work that day, he figured that old strawberry witch was tricking us into buying stuff for her and put the list on top of the fridge before we got in bed that night. Couldn’t sleep much, too much thinking. The still-crawling babies, the strawberries, the tea, the summer heat making up put a fan in the window to blow in hot air, the everything.”

Mama looked out of my window for a second, as if glancing a memory riding by down the road.

“The rules were so simple, though. Find the colors in the things I love, and hand them into her by next year. And it bothered me enough that I told your Daddy about it, and he said, ‘Well, Rosie. If you think you can do it, go ‘head. But if and when the witch play you for a fool, don’t say I didn’t warn you. You got sense enough, you grown’.”

I held back a chuckle at Mama’s Daddy Impression. Mama rolled her eyes fondly. “Sol never cared much for witches anyhow, had both of his feet on the ground since birth, your Daddy did’”

“Did you find the colors?” I asked, and Mama nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I did! It took a while, though, loving things are always hard to do when you ain’t got much. But then I found the pink dress I wore for me and your Daddy’s wedding and a set of red socks your grandma made me for when I was a little girl…the pieces came together. And the witch came back outside my door, selling strawberries in our building again, and I let her in, and she took the things, and handed me this.” Mama said, passing me the rhombus.

I held it in my hand for a second as she went on. She said, “Paint the baby’s room in all the colors you think they’ll like. Make sure to wait for a sunny day before you pull this stone out again. When the room’s ready and the sun is out and the stone is polished-cuz it was a bit dusty when she gave it to me- set it in the window. You’ll know what to do next.”

I blinked, my head spinning. “Well, what did Daddy say?”

“Daddy didn’t understand it much, but he did have a baby room set aside, and he was a painter on the side back in those days, so we got to work, putting enough love into the room that the colors, though they did seem a bit much at times, were so pretty in the sun, and after weeks of polishing that old rock till it shined…well, we knew it was time.”

“What did you do?” I asked, and Mama sat back.

“You know, it’s funny. It was the first time in a while you’re Daddy and I talked about the two babies. He had to toss the ashes into the lake under the highway, yknow. And he talked about there were days where all he could do was watch the paint dry at work, feeling the babies float around in his head as just sat and stared at nothing. “ Mama said. “We  keep the plaques on the walls now, but in those days, we kept their death plaques in a drawer, and while we cleaning the baby’s room, we brought them back out during a break one night and just sat and held each other and cried for a while. Just sat on the floor of our bedroom with paint all over ourselves and cried.”

I nodded, just listening. I looked at my walls for the first time, really looked. And I noticed the birds, the clouds, the stars. All bright, even after all this time. All multi-colored.

“It was a fall day, but it was sunny, your Daddy had to go to work early to get something done for his boss’s niece or something, and after I kissed him good-bye I looked at that old rock, looked outside and set it by the window to dry. I didn’t see any harm. It wasn’t a sunny day and I would be home by lunch anyhow. But when I got back, all I could find was this beautiful, bawling baby laying brown and naked in this empty crib, and I picked you up and called your Daddy and well, you’ve been here ever since.”

My eyes grew wide with recognition and I stared at the rhombus in my hand- no, it wasn’t a rhombus, it was a prism, the kind of prism that caught colors from the light.

“I was born from this?” I asked, and my mother nodded.

 “I’m guessing so. The witch wasn’t exact. But we knew that you were ours once we had you. And we knew the moment we had you that we would name you-“

“DIAMOND! ROSEMARY? C’MON, Y’ALL THE MOVIE’S GONNA BE STARTING SOON, WE’LL MISS THE PREVIEWS!”

And Mama shrugged. “Well, that! C’mon, baby. I don’t think this coupon will be valid after midnight, even if we do tell ‘em it’s your birthday”

And in a minute we were gone out the door, but before we left, I set the prism under my rusty old lamp, the bulb that’s been dying since I first got it. I had a galaxy of rainbows in my room once we got back home.

THE END

Original publish year: 2016

(c) Jean M. Hodges

________________________________________________________________________________________

SUPPORT MY WORK!

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Want me to drop me a tip and a kind hello? Donate to my Paypal!

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It keeps me & my work going! Thank you. Spread the magic!

G(r)eeks and the Cemetary Block, a short story

Fiction, Short Stories

G(r)eeks and the Cemetary Block, a short story by Jean M. Hodges

Who ever thought it was a good idea to put a cemetery so close to a high school?

Even from her place high up in the computer lab, Aphrodite could still make out the spiky gates surrounding the graveyard, as well as the tombstones that jutted out of the dry, weedy grass like broken teeth as it .

The whole place took up at least a couple city blocks, and even sandwiched in between a church and the apartment building right next to school, you can still sense that it was there.

And it freaked Aphrodite the fuck out.

For once she was happy that her laptop had been broken. As much as Aphrodite hated having to do her online work at school, she would avoid walking home past that place any day.

But this was winter, and the afternoon would soon fade away into a cool, crisp night, and she would have prefered not running into anybody shady if she could help it.

So, to get her mind off of the cemetery, she focused on her essay for AP Lit. “The Greek Gods” is said in dull, academic font, and Aphrodite smiled at it’s familiarity.

She soon found her fingers gliding across the keyboard, flipping through her notes every as she filled her computer screen with dates and numbers and legends still relevant enough to reach out and bestow Aphrodite with a name that she still felt silly saying out loud .

In her industrious haze, Aphrodite didn’t even notice another girl come into the empty computer room to take her seat beside her as if she’d been there all along.

**

Sybil was the kind of girl with a reputation but what this reputation entailed was as hazy as cigarette smoke.

All Aphrodite knew was that when Sybil walked down the halls, a few of the older boys would cat call her as much as they could while the teachers would usher them away, telling them to get to class before the bell.

Sybil mostly kept to herself, which was easy enough for a girl with a reputation, whatever that meant. She’d sit in the back in class, reading some book or another, doodling a picture in her notebooks as the school hours ticked away.

She wore fishnets long enough for the eyes of the teachers and students to get caught on her legs, and more than once Sybil was sent to in front of the class as an example of being improper and being out of uniform, siting the fishnets and lose bra straps peeking out of her own approximation of the school shirt, a loose red crop top she’d cut and sewn herself, giving her the appearance of a patched up ragdoll as she rolled her eyes at her instructor’s latest lecture on self-respect .

She more a longer red shirt and pants to stop the teachers from yapping for a while, but she’d be out of it by last period, back in her red crop top, black shorts and black fishnets as soon as she got to Remedial French.

She was wearing that outfit now in library seat next to Aphrodite, and the only reason Aphrodite even noticed at first was because when she leaned back in her chair to stretch and watch the time, she was the trail of long, leggy diamonds from the corner of her eye.

Glancing to her side, Aphrodite said, “Sybil?”

Sybil, who was deep into her book, had looked up and smiled, her eyebrows going up with amusement and surprise.

“Hey!”

“Hey…”

“Um…?”

“Aphrodite.”

“Oh yeah, like the Greek goddess! Nice to see you! What’s up?”

“N-not much. Working.”

“Cool, cool.”

“You?”

“Doing a book report, so I thought I’d turn to the classics.”

“Icarus Johnson is a classic?”

“Hell yeah, it is! I’d loved this book series since middle school! Man, I love it when demigods kick ass…” Sybil said, flipping through her book fondly.

Aphrodite quirked an eyebrow, “You’ve read the Greek myths?”

“Does Captain Kirk recite Shakespeare on the fly?” Sybil said with  a playful smirk.

Aphrodite looked down, doing her best to hide her blush behind her long, purple braids.

Rolling her chair closer to Aphrodite, Sybil whispered, “I’m just teasing,” before rolling back in front of her own book and computer.

“So! What are you doing here so late?”

Aphrodite shrugged. “Erm, got a project to do. My laptop broke. You?”

Sybil pointed out of the window. “My apartment’s next to the right next to the cemetery. But I got bored after detention so I came up here to read alone. But I guess you beat me to it.” Sybil said, elbowing Aphrodite with a playful grin, which only made the other girl give a nervous chuckle.

“Heh. Yeah, I guess. “ Aphrodite said, looking at her work on the computer screen. “Well, I’m about done, I gotta get home before dark.”

Sybil nodded. “That’s fine, I finished this chapter anyway. I’ll just walk with you!” Sybil said, packing her book into her skull-patterned backpack.

“Oh!” Aphrodite cried, rushing to save her work said that. You don’t have to do that! I’ll be fine!

Sybil scoffed. “I ain’t doing anything. No one’s expecting me at home. Besides, it’s not safe for a young girl to walk home alone during the nighttime! Especially in this neighborhood! Buddy system!”

“So, you’re my buddy now, Sybil?” Aphrodite teased, packing her flashdrive into her backpack.

Sybil looked back at her with serious, brown eyes. “Well, I hope to be, Miss Aphrodite. Wanna start now?”

Aphrodite looked between the door and Sybil’s hand, considering for a moment. Well, it was getting dark out. And she doubted her mother would mind her walking home with a classmate.

Aphrodite sighed, sliding her hand into Sybil’s. “OK.”

Sybil smiled. “OK.”

Letting go of Sybil’s hand to let slip her own backpack on, she heard Sybil say, “I hope you like talking! Cuz I’m going to be doing a lot of that during this walk, how about you?”

Aphrodite shrugged. “I don’t mind talking.”

Sybil nodded. “Good! Let’s get started! Hi, I’m Sybil! I’m in your Chemistry class.”

Aphrodite smiled, “Aphrodite. Nice to meet you, Sybil.” Sybil laughed.

“Likewise, my dear lady! Now let’s get you home so I don’t have to shank some shady dudes, mmkay?”

**

Ten steps to the graveyard…

“What ice-cream do you like?” Sybil asked, reaching into her backpack with one hand to pull out a few licorice sticks.

“Caramel…” Aphrodite murmured, seeing them pass the spiky gates from the corner of her eye.

Aphrodite still felt Sybil’s hand in hers, her red-hot manicure nails rooting her to the here and now and we’re almost passed it, we’re almost ‘Dite, just a little further…

“We should go out to IceRock sometime! They’re right downtown, they make the best ice-cream!”

The cemetery was a little ways behind them now and Aphrodite let go of Sybil’s hand to stretch out  her arms.

“You don’t have to” Aphrodite said, putting her hands in the pockets of her shabby, grey hoodie. “I really don’t wanna  bother you”

Sybil smiled, before leaning to kiss Aphrodite on the cheek.

“You don’t bother me. That’s why I’m walking you home, silly!” Sybil said, lacing her arm through Aphrodite’s as they both walked down the sidewalk in the dying sunlight with the shyest of smiles.

“Now let’s get out of here! This block always creeps me out at night!” Sybil whispered, breaking them out of their dreamy trance to hurry them along.

Aphrodite laughed, letting Sybil drag them down the crosswalk, feeling the wind flow through the gaps of her old, ripped jeans.

“Yeah, me too!”

THE END

Original publish year: 2016

(c) Jean M. Hodges

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Sodapop, a flash fiction story

Fiction, Flash Fiction

Sodpop, a flash fiction story by Jean M. Hodges

They always bought their favorite soda from the corner store down the street. It right by their apartment, and anyway, the two of them enjoyed being out together for a bit, this town being a bright, sunny place that made them want to rest under the heat. Might as well put a cool drink to their lips, right?

They brought their cool goods to the nearby park, taking cover under a shady tree, eager to get a sip of the magical elixir before the heat of the day overtook them.

The man drunk first, he reached over his girlfriend’s legs to get the soda from their small cooler, the drink grazing over her bare, brown legs in his haste as he ushered the syrupy sweet to his wide, soft lips.

The woman shivered at the perspiration to from the man’s hurried drink, the cool of the metal causing dripping pleasantly at the chilly contact.

He found herself blushing, smiling a guilty smile to her, watching her boyfriend eagerly drink with a quiet sense of relish that stirred her stomach, though she figured it was the heat.

After a moment, the man saw her staring, and mistook the rosy flush of on her cheeks as a preemptive heat stroke. Smiling warmly at her, the man passed the soda bottle to her, and the woman blushed, shook her head and looked away.

The man put the man moved the soda in his into his other hand, putting a hand on his girlfriend’s bare shoulder, causing the young woman to look up at the chilly shock.

They looked each other’s eyes for a moment, the sound of each other’s breathing and the pop-pop-pop of the soda the only noise in the space between them.

The man held the soda out in front of the woman one more time, and smiled sweetly, his large brown eyes giving a gentle prompt.

The woman smiled back, and seeing that the drink looked good, took it in her hands and gave a large gulp.

The man swallowed at the sight of her, and blushed at the woman licking the sugar water off of her lips.

The woman caught his gaze, smiled wickedly, and drank some more, draining the whole thing out before handing the empty bottle back to him.

The man didn’t come back to himself until he heard her opening another.

THE END

Original publish year: 2017

(c) Jean M. Hodges

________________________________________________________________________________________

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Want me to drop me a tip and a kind hello? Donate to my Paypal!

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It keeps me & my work going! Thank you. Spread the magic!

Shango, The Witch and the Wand, a flash fiction story

Fiction, Flash Fiction

Shango, the Witch and the Wand, a flash fiction story by Jean M. Hodges

Shango had been snoozing in his car seat in the city junkyard when the witch banged on his window.

“Hey!” they yelled, banging on the glass. “Hey! Hey!  Hobo, hey!”

Shango rolled over in his bed in the back seat, sticking his tongue out at the witch before rolling over on his belly, giving them his ass.

After that, the Witch disappeared from the side of his car, and after a few minutes of silence, Shango almost thought that they’d decided to leave him alone for the night.

Almost. But he knew better.

Grumbling as he pushed himself up from his car seat, Shango stretched before reaching over and opening the car door in front of him, not surprised to see the Witch taking a screwdriver to his tires.

“What is it?” Shango asked, slumping his shoulders in defeat.

The Witch smiled, dropping the screwdriver back into the gigantic pocketbook they always carried with them, standing up to face the sleepy youth in front of them.

“I lost my wand, help me find it.”

Stretching his arms out, Shango phased through through his car door before plopping on the metal-filled ground with a hard, transparent thud, right by the Witch’s bare feet.

“Alright, where do we start?”

*~* They found wand stuck with along with the other garbage in a pile of abandoned baby stuff; toys never played with and shoes never worn.

“We square?” Shango asked the witch, and they grinned, nodding vigorously.

Shango smiled. “Good. And hey! If you need somewhere to sleep during a hurricane, my car’s always open.”

The Witch’s smile faded off their face as they gazed in surprise at the back of the young ghost, watching in silence as Shango floated back to the junkyard pile of the landfill graveyard.

Looking back at them with a mischievous smile, Shango added,

“Just bang.”

THE END

Original publish year: 2017

(c) Jean M. Hodges

_______________________________________________________________________________________

SUPPORT MY WORK!

Like my work? Buy me a drink! 

Want me to drop me a tip and a kind hello? Donate to my Paypal!

And if you want to support my work long-term, consider donating to my Patreon !

It keeps me & my work going! Thank you. Spread the magic!

A is For AppleJuice, a flash fiction story

Fiction, Flash Fiction

A is for Applejuice, a flash fiction story by Jean M. Hodges

Curses weren’t always a bad thing; Ginger figured there were worse things in the world than being a Black gorgon.

Ginger knew this, and she knew her and all the women in her family was more of a protection, anyway; a genetic talisman bestowed upon them by cruel and beautiful gods in some ancient land long, long, ago, maybe.  

So, yeah, Ginger didn’t mind the snakes in her hair so much? She just wished That Cute Kaida could really look her way someday.

That Cute Kaida worked at the corner store down the street from Ginger’s house; Ginger first caught sight of them when sneaking into the store in the middle of her lunch break to grab some corn chips before class.

That Cute Kaida was the owner’s teenage nibling, working in the store after dropping out of their own high school and working on their own GED to get into community college.


“They did my baby dirty, Miss Ginger,” the store owner, would say, clicking her tongue and whispering something in a Spanglish Ginger couldn’t understand. “As if it’s their fault their Mama was a werewolf. They missed so many classes just to take care of their baby brothers and sisters! Is that a crime? These damn white teachers…”

Ginger only caught glances of them, really; sometimes sweeping up the corner store floors, sometimes bopping to a song on their auntie’s radio, sometimes behind the counter, studying in between working the cash register.

However, despite all the information Ginger gathered from just seeing them on snack stops in between school, classes and coming home, That Cute Kaida only really knew Ginger for one thing:

“Hey, Applejuice! Will that be all? It’s nice to see you again”

And Ginger would blush, smile, and pay.

THE END

Original publish year: 2017

(c) Jean M. Hodges

________________________________________________________________________________________

SUPPORT MY WORK!

Like my work? Buy me a drink! 

Want me to drop me a tip and a kind hello? Donate to my Paypal!

And if you want to support my work long-term, consider donating to my Patreon !

It keeps me & my work going! Thank you. Spread the magic!