First Think, THEN Ink.

It was very warm that May of Eighteen hundred and sixty-four. Unpleasantly hot, truth be told. But the temperature still was not as hot as the hotheads who made that wager.

You’d think that neighbors would get along well with one another. ’Specially those that have so much in common. Jebediah Jehosaphat and Rory Calhoun. Two gentlemen farmers, they were. Each had a spread, parcels of land, acres and acres next to each other and they’d farm cotton crops, and they each put up soldiers as them troops moved through the area, usually north to the front lines, but sometimes south with their wounded and dead.

Let me tell you, these two? They were the cream of the Confederacy. They might have won the war if they’d’ve teamed up and joined the fray. Too busy fightin’ each other, I s’pose.

Oh! But as I were sayin’, that May of ’64, there came this heatwave like we hadn’t had in a long spell. Crickets were chirping without a stop, bullfrogs were looking for ponds but all they found was mud about a foot deep, where there was mud. It was the blazes, even at night, the air was like a wool blanket in a furnace.

I don’t know what got into those two one evening but they must’ve been drinking some rum and chasing it with corn whisky because they started in with their measuring. This one had the largest cotton field or that one had the biggest kitchen. But you could always tell things were about to get agitated when they started measuring each other. It always started with who had the purdyer wife. But this time it turned to who could satisfy, with her womanly attentions, her man.

Maybe Rory said something first, about how Jeb’s wife couldn’t stand the stench of the stink beneath her husband’s male saddlebag, maybe it was Jeb who said Rory’s wife was losing her eyesight from trying to find her husband’s staff, then one of them said something about how the only thing the other one’s wife pricked her finger with was her stitching needle.

Somebody had had enuf, and a challenges were issued. There were some back and forth about it, how to do it and what be the stakes and whatnot, but Jeb, a lawyer by trade, decided to write it all out, legal-like, and they made it official with witnesses watching ’em sign the document.

They agreed to a race. It was gonna be two laps around both their properties. The winner would receive one Confederate Dollar. And the loser would die.

In the week leading up to the race, you could tell, there was pride on display. Word got around to the nearby counties and people started coming to see this big event. You would’ve thought the Circus come to town the way the people were clamoring. Most anything to take their minds off of the war, which tw’ern’t goin’ so well.

Come the day of the race, and a crowd of people showed up in the heat. A lotta folks wanted to be near the finishing line to see the results first hand. But others preferred to be out of the sun and found some shade along the course with some trees. And that were important because of the rules.

There were parasols for the ladies and a drinking gourd was by the well so that the viewers could wet their whistle. It was time to introduce the competitors.

“Hello, everyone! My name is Rory Calhoun, and I am the proprietor of the Calhoun Plantation!”

The crowd applauded mostly to get the air moving.

“My name is Jebediah Jehosaphat, and I am the owner of the Three Js Plantation.”

More applause.

After the speechifying, there came the moment, the two men who would race each other got to lay eyes on one another.

“Hammer?”

“Jesse?”

“The winner of the race will get a week off from their duties, as a part of the prize!”

“The race is two times around the property and the person crossing the line first is the champion!”

The crowd cheered, hoping to cool the air down in any way, most of ’em. And examining the competitors, there was a question whether some of the ladies in attendance were swooning only from the heat.

The two slaves, Hammer for Calhoun and Jesse for Jehosaphat stood next to each other, each shirtless and already glistening with the dew of their bodies. Anyone could see they were evenly matched in height, weight, and muscle tone, each of them valued members of their masters. But that was the thing. Hammer and Jesse were brothers.

“Are both ready?”

The two brothers looked at each other, then looked back and nodded.

“Go!”

And go they did! It was a speedy start as they both took off, keeping stride for stride as they disappeared around the first turn. And that was about when I got involved.

See, I knew there were a bunch of people watching the northern side of the land to make sure these two weren’t gonna run for freedom, so before they got that far, I ran through the brambles and bushes and met them.

“Stop, stop!” I waved them over to the side of the road and I told them what I knew. That the loser of the race was gonna get kilt.

They didn’t want to believe it, at first. But why would I lie, I told them and I told them about the wager. Then it became what to do. If they tried to escape, they would be recaptured and then they’d prob’ly be tortured before getting kilt. And they both got babies born since the war started.

It was Hammer who said “Let’s finish the race in a tie.”

“What’s that gonna do?” Jesse asked. “Won’t that mean we’ll just have to race again?”

“What else is there?” Hammer asked. “Besides, this is just some contest to see who is best. If we both tie, then maybe they’ll see that don’t make no nevermind.”

“Yeah. I guess you right, brotha.” Jesse answered.

Just then, about a thousand yards away, I could see some movement up ahead. One of them spotters was peepin’ down the road. I dashed back through the brambles and they went on their way.

I got back to the house before they crossed the finishing line the first time. Hammer had a slight lead but Jesse was close enough to touch if he fell down. That’s when Jehosaphat brought out his whip and cracked it on Jesse’s backsides. ‘Jesse moved in front in a matter of steps, while Hammer was moving too fast for Rory to do the same. They dashed off out of sight and again toward the northern part of the course.

I couldn’t help but wonder what they were all about. Did they talk on the way? Did they consider trying to make a break? Did they think maybe their women or their babies would suffer because of it? In a way, I started to hope that they did try to get away, ’cause this would have been their best chance to make it.

At the finishing line, I saw that a man was setting up some large contraption. It looked like some sort of picture frame with one big glass eye in the middle of it. I could overhear the man explaining it was to capture a likeness of the end of the race. It kinda looked like some sort of cannon to me.

We waited for them to come around, and I looked to see if their families were around. I was thankful that they wasn’t cause I didn’t want to see they faces.

I could hear shouting. And here they came, around the bend! Both Calhoun and Jehosaphat ran up and started whipping Hammer and Jesse as they started to come down for the final yards. Calhoun would whip Hammer and he’d inch ahead, then Jehosaphat would whip Jesse and he’d move up.

The four men, all running to the finishing line, the two masters flogging their property until the last minute when the masters moved out of the way of the picture maker. Suddenly a flash of white light and the two racers continued past the line, breathless, battered and bathed in their own sweat and blood from their open wounds.

Who won, everyone wanted to know. Many on the inside of the track saw Hammer cross the line first. But the folks on the far side thought Jesse made it first.

The referee said it looked like it was a tie. He couldn’t tell.

The masters decided to wait to see about the picture, so it took a couple of days more, but even the picture had both Hammer’s and Jesse’s feet crossin’ the finishing line at the same time. They did it! Hammer and Jesse did the tie!

Later that day, both masters brought Hammer and Jesse’s families out to the backyard of the Calhoun estate, took them away from their daily chores and had them sit down on chairs. Then they brought out Hammer and Jesse who were busy at work themselves. Then they brought out all the slaves from both plantations to stand behind and view the presentation.

“We had a wager,” Jehosaphat said, “and there was no resolution.”

“We had hundreds of guests to view this race,” Calhoun said, “And there was no winner.”

“So, for that,” Jehosaphat said.

“We now have this.” Calhoun said.

Both men drew revolvers and fired at each other’s slaves. Both Hammer and Jesse screamed a single time before they fell, both hit the ground at the same time, bleedin’ the same blood.

The two slave owners stood over their bodies as they squirmed and watched the last bit of life oozing out of them, frowned up, then caught a glance of each other, lookin’ at the other. Then, they started to chuckle and laugh, before shaking their heads, then doing some backslaps and hand clasps. They waved the rest of us back to our tasks, the mamas trying to hush up their babies, still crying from the jolt and sound of the pistol fire.

After that, the rivalry between those two never much amounted to nothin’. But then again, neither did the Confederacy.

//

This story was written for LJ Idol using a prompt from Week [17] of this season’s competition: Nevermind.

Young Tronald Dump’s father, a man named Tred Frump (there was a name change along the way, just go with it) was, early in his career, a modestly successful businessman and real estate developer. He wanted to instill in his son a sense of what is right and wrong, a sense of what is good and bad and how to act and react to any circumstances, both in the world of business and in life.

One day, Mr. Frump had a real estate deal to handle. It was a big project, potentially worth millions of dollars to his company, which would translate to a huge boost for his personal pocketbook.

The deal wasn’t “a sure thing.” In fact, Frump thought that maybe there would be trouble. So, he decided to bring eight-year old Tronald along to his meeting for two reasons. The first was he wanted to indoctrinate his son into what a business negotiation was all about, to give him an understanding of the process and a clear concept of what that meant for the life of a company and their family. But he also was hoping to manipulate and distract the negotiator with a cute kid and maybe get a better result.

Frump tramped in, with his little Dump, behind.

“Sorry. My babysitter went to summer camp!” he said brightly.

Young Tronald climbed into an overstuffed chair next to his father, wearing a serious face just as well as he wore his Brooks Brothers suit.

“You might as well have just sent over a messenger,” came the reply from the attorney representing the project. “This deal isn’t going forward. We’ve decided to go another way.”

“You’re crazy!” Frump harrumphed. “This will provide beautiful homes for all the returning G.I.s from World War II. Well, not ALL, just the white ones, of course.”

“Mr. Frump, you have done other deals with other people, most of them in New York City proper, but here on Long Island, we have our own way of working. I’m sorry to tell you, the Lovitt family has brought in a contractor that they simply preferred in this case and they will handle everything else in house. Good luck in your future endeavors.”

Frump frowned. “Is there nothing I can sa...”

“Please. Don't embarrass yourself.”

After a single glare, a grab of his son and a march toward the door, Mr. Frump walked into the hallway, got down on one knee, straightened his son’s tie and jacket and looked him in the eye.

“I want you to remember what just happened in there,” Tred said to Tronald. “When someone treats you badly, you be sure to treat them just as badly.”

Frump stood and walked over to a phone booth in the lobby and fished out a five-cent piece from his trousers.

“Showing me up in front of my child.” Frump muttered, sticking his finger in the rotary dial and turning. “Hello, may I speak to the Office of Urban Planning?” A pause. “Yes, I have a complaint about an upcoming project that is scheduled to begin later this year... yes, I’ll hold.” he covered the phone receiver’s mouthpiece, chuckled and gave his son a wink.

A few weeks later, during a lavish breakfast, Tred Frump was in a particularly good mood. He put down the business section of the New York Herald, with the headline: Lovittown Deal Inked With New Contractor.

“My son, my son!” Frump called as Tronald wandered into the dining room. “Wonderful news today.” Frump pulled out a chair for his son to sit upon and got him a plate of pancakes, eggs and sausage. “Not only did the company that beat us for the Lovittown project lose their contract, the great people at the Federal Housing Authority have backed our plans for our new urban buildings!”

Tronald sat quietly and listened attentively through bites of his egg.

“Always support the people who supported you. They are the people you can trust,” Frump enthused. “Loyalty, above all else. That’s something that you can’t buy or trade. When loyalty comes along, stick to it like glue.”

Tronald mulled over the concept as he sipped his orange juice.

“Be loyal to those who are loyal to you,” Tronald Dump said. “And cut off anyone who is disloyal.”

“No, no.” Frump corrected. “Listen to me carefully. People being ‘loyal’ are all very well, and you will have employees and tenants and sycophants who are going to be ‘loyal.’” Frump continued. “They don’t matter.” Frump paused a moment to let that thought come through.

Frump continued, “It’s the people who have power, who actually do something to help advance your career, help you achieve what you wanted to do, help to increase your finances that are the people you need to remain loyal to, through thick and thin.”

“I see, Father,” Tronald responded.

“Always remember that, son.”

“I swear, I will.”

Tronald Dump shook his head and blinked out of his reverie. He blankly stared at the TelePrompter with the opening remarks of a speech in the lobby of Dump Tower.

“My fellow Americans.”

Dump read ahead and noted the speech was to do with some violent attack by a White Nationalist group and the death of a protester against that group. He decided to ad-lib.

“Let me say, that we condemn violence of any kind, especially as it relates to humans. But let me say that we condemn all violence from every direction it comes from. EVERY direction, not just one.”

“We know that there is guilt,” he continued, “And we know that this guilt must be shared equally among all the participants.”

A reporter in the crowd shouted, “Are you actually saying that the protestors of this hate group deserve to be blamed equally for the violence that occurred?”

“They were there, weren’t they? Hey! If they did not go to the rally, they would not have been there to be a part of it.”

Several reporters began to shout.

“Buh-buh-buh. Now you shut up with your fake news and your twisting the story stories,” The Tronald demanded.

“Is this to do with the fact that a lot of your voting base were these so-called White Nationalists,” another reporter called.

“Next question.”

“Sir, you haven’t answered…”

Dump glared at the reporter. “I’m not here to answer your fake news questions. You people are always out to get me! You people are constantly harping on every word I say.”

“You don’t get it. I’m here to help this country in every way possible!” Dump stated. “By continuing to criticize me for the little things you think are important, you are preventing me from my vision. Don’t you see how you are the ones that are wrong?!”

The crowd went silent and in that silence, Tronald Dump could see the spirit of his father, smiling up at him. And in that moment, as he remembered the lesson of the Code of Honor he was taught all those years ago, Tronald Dump smiled down on his father as well.

“I’m doing this for you.” Dump said to his vision.

“What was that?” a person in the crowd yelled.

“I’m doing this for you, the American people!”


//

This work of fiction was written for LJ Idol using the prompt Fatal flaw

Joe Fixadore was a policeman in the City of Angels, booted off the squad for a violation he swore he didn’t do those thirty-two times.

Now, he’s an ex-cop with a chip on his shoulder and a grudge to settle and he is determined to even the score and get back on the force.

Joe kept his badge and he kept it highly polished, though he was supposed to turn it in with his uniform and his pistol. He taped over the number and told everyone he knew, and even some people he didn’t know, that he was a “freelancing plainclothes enforcer of the law.” When nobody bothered to contact him, except his former Captain demanding he return the shield, he quickly changed his phone number and started running ads on the back pages of the paper:

ARE YOU IN A FIX? Better get THE FIXER!

Who said you couldn’t give yourself a nickname? That was his nickname: The Fixer. You know, because of the last name. He considered going with an additional slogan – “You’ll ‘Adore’ The Fixer,” but he thought that would be too easy for the cops to figure out it was him.

( The Fixer set up operations... )

“Hello there!”

“Hello.”

“And who might you be?”

“My name is Angela.”

“Angela. Is that it?”

“My mom taught me not to give out too much information, especially to adults I don’t know and in threatening situations.”

“I see. Do you feel like you’re being threatened in some way?”

“Actually… um… no.”

“That’s good then.”

“So wait. Who are you?”

“Don’t freak out when I tell you this. But I am an angel.”

“My mom named me Angela because she said when she saw me, I looked like an angel.”

“That’s a lovely thought, Angela. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“But, I don’t look anything like you.”

“Yes, well, your mother had never actually seen an angel at that time.”

“And, I’m not a guy.”

“No, but you see, angels aren’t actually gender specific because, obviously, we don’t reproduce.”

“Well, you *look* like a guy.”

“We’ve found that humans tend to respond more readily to authoritarian figures who fall into the spectrum of male. If you find this thought sexist, I apologize.”

“So, you’re actually an angel?”

“Don't make me repeat it, Angela!”

“Oh. So, what’s your name?”

“Peyton.”

“Like Peyton Meyer, the guy who starred as Lucas from ‘Girl Meets World’ on Disney Channel. I cried when I heard that show got canceled.”

“Or like Peyton List, the girl who stars as Emma on ‘Bunk’d,’ also on Disney Channel!”

“I never liked that series.”

“Tell me how old you are?”

“Thirteen.”

And how do you currently feel, Angela?”

“I don’t feel… bad. I don’t feel anything.”

“Would you characterize the feeling you have as… numb?”

“I guess so, I mean, I don’t know.”

“You aren’t feeling too cold or too warm?”

“Not that I’m aware. And I’d have to say that normally I would be completely bored if I wasn’t watching something and texting or tweeting about it. Somehow, sitting here and talking to you, it’s strangely okay.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Angela.”

“So, are you like MY Guardian Angel?”

“Me? No. That isn’t my role at all.”

“Oh. Kay. So, why are you bothering with me?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you talking to me, if you aren’t my Guardian Angel?”

“Guardian Angels never speak to their charges. It would only complicate matters in ways that would likely create many more problems than it would resolve.”

“Yes. We established that you aren’t my Guardian Angel. So why ARE you talking to me?”

“Let’s come back to that question a little bit later, Angela.”

“Are you trying to hide something from me?”

“Hide? No. I can’t hide anything from anyone. But the mind needs time to understand and process, so we have to take things slowly.”

“Oh and where are we, anyway? This definitely isn’t my room, and it’s not any place I recognize.”

“Would seeing things that you would recognize be good for you, Angela?”

“Yes. I guess it would, Pey-ton.”

“Don’t be mean, An-gel-a. I’m here to help.”

“This looks like the main lobby of my Junior High School.”

“Yes!”

“How dull. How about this.”

“Alright. Times Square. Certainly not the first time I’ve been here.”

“It's weird that the whole place is empty.”

“That’s because it’s just the location, not the people in it.”

“It seems kind of sad with no one here.”

“Sad? Well, we don’t want that. What if we changed it to the porch and lawn part of your backyard?”

“Fine, I guess.”

“There. That’s more like it.”

“So, is this later, now?”

“Later?”

“So I can find out why you’re bothering with me when you have a whole universe to take care of, I mean there’s probably someone in trouble you could be helping.”

“Oh. That.”

“Or granting someone’s wish! Or, I mean answering their prayer?”

“That’s not exactly how…”

“‘You seem to enjoy being cryptic.’ That’s a quote from my therapist. But it also applies to you.”

“I don’t mean to be cryptic, Angela.”

“I just realized, I’m being a terrible host. Would you like something? A snack?”

“Angels don’t eat in the same way as humans do.”

“I see. I was going to get a glass of iced tea but I’m suddenly not thirsty at all.”

“I understand, Angela.”

“So, there’s more to this backyard than just the porch. Off to the right is about a hundred acres of woodlands. Now that I’m thinking of it, you can suddenly see it over there! Sometime deer come out and sit on the grass. We even saw a trespasser bear one time.”

“That must be fun to have happen!”

“It gets pretty old. Especially when the deer start to eat flowers my Mom planted. She throws a fit. And my dad had to scare the bear with a cherry bomb. Out there, is Dad's little driving range and mini golf set of putting greens. Oh, here’s my dad, now!”

“Angela, there’s something I should tell you…”

“Why is he running in slow motion? And there’s Mom running in slow motion behind him. Even for a dream, this is weird. Is this a dream?”

“Angela I’d like you to listen carefully to me.”

“There’s one other thing in our backyard that makes us the envy of the block. Our Olympic sized swimming pool!”

“Yes. About the pool…”

“Take a look! Isn’t it great? We had it installed during the Rio games last year and I only got to start using the diving board this year! Hey. There’s somebody swimming there, without me!”

“Angela, please listen to me.”




“Angela, do you see that person in the pool, the one your parents are slowly running towards?”

“Of course, I do. I was the one to say someone was in the pool.”

“That someone is you.”

“No, it’s not. I’m here, talking with you.”

“Yes. You’re talking with me. Peyton the Angel.”

“But if that’s me, how could…”

“Did you notice the expressions on your parents’ faces? If not, don’t look.”

“Are you saying that I’m…”

“Here’s the thing. You are at a crossroads, Angela.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“You have a choice! Not everyone gets this sort of choice, especially so young.”

“What are the choices?”

“You can either rejoin your family back here or you can come with me to a new existence!”

“So, what are the catches?”

“Catches? Do you believe I’m out to trick you into some sort of steal your soul bargain? Our side never pulls that kind of guff.”

“I didn’t mean to imply you were trying to trick me, just that usually there’s some elements that come attached to any decision that might make someone consider that choice more carefully.”

“I get it. You’re a highly intelligent being.”

“Am I going to be brain dead or impaired if I stay?”

“No, you should make a full recovery.”

“And what is this ‘new existence’?”

“I can’t tell you anything about it, just that it’s very different from this place.”

“Well, how am I supposed to decide which way to go?”

“I will say this. There is incredible beauty and overwhelming joy if you come with me.”

“But my Mom and Dad will be sad for the rest of their lives if I chose that.”

“It’s not like you’re going to see them. I mean, take inventory. How are you feeling now?”

“I’m okay.”

“So, you’d be okay with leaving them behind.”

“But THEY wouldn’t be okay. They’d be sad, or feeling guilty that I drowned in a pool that they wanted to help make me happy.”

“What if I told you they wouldn’t.”

“They wouldn’t?”

“That they wouldn’t be sad or guilty about this.”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Have I lied to you before?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you think that angels lie?”

“I… I never thought about it, but if I had to guess it would be no.”

“Then, what seems to be the issue?”

“Maybe you aren’t an angel?”

“Not an angel! Not an angel! I don’t understand how you can say that.”

“You're playing games with me. You are offering me some other existence. You are saying my parents won’t care if I died.”

“I’m trying to help you, Angela, but you have to let me help you. You need to make the correct choice!”

“I thought you said this was my choice! Now, it’s starting to feel like you’re practically forcing me to go!”

“Just release. Fall away. Come with me! Please hurry!”

“I… whoa… blur…”

“Angela?”

“Blur, glub, club, lub… skaaz!”





“cough-cough-cough-hasp!”

“She’s breathing!”

“Thank you, God, she’s back. She’s back!”

“Honey, are you alright?”

“Ca-caa-ahea-ah.”

“I’ll get the car. Let’s get her to the clinic.”

“My beautiful angel. You’re okay! You’re okay.”

“M-Mom.”

“Yes, Angela?”

“I’m… sorry.”

//

This entry was written for LJ Idol using the prompt Turn Back or Forge Ahead.