Erased, a novel
Chapter 22- The Girl Next Door
Sam- The lights are down. The room is still. The Griot has taken a startling turn, and she emphasizes it with a pause. She's sitting in a rocky chair. Her hair is wrapped in several pieces of cloth, and she carries the length of them on her head like she's in her homeland and it's a large jug of water. There's two spotlights; one circles her, and the other, a lesser light falls on a short table beside her. We're not exactly sure when she got there. It was sometime between the sounds of beating drums, and the interplay between three groups of dancers. It's a Friday evening, and the promoters have packed the place. I'm surprised because it's just a little bigger than the biggest hole in the wall. I haven't been here before, and I slipped in just before the lights went down. I thought there would mostly be an Afro centric crowd, but from what I can see there's more of us. I hadn't bothered to invite anyone; it's just work for me. I try to keep my ears on the ground. If I don't, we won't grow, and if I don't, it all happens seamlessly. It's hard to understand how art hides the way it does in a large town, but it certainly finds ways and places to stay out of the spotlight.
The pause has ended, and the people are breathing again. She has a fan in her hand and she looks to be waving off some of her thoughts, as if she doesn't think we can handle it. Her story is about a young woman. She hasn't given us her name. It's not the point so much as her descriptions of her and the madness she carries with her everywhere she goes. It's a kind of a warning; the story, but none of the words are quite lined up that way. She's heavy the Griot... I mean she looks like she has large bones. She fills out the chair, and every now and then when she begins to rock, it squeaks. The irony of the tale she tells is that as the mountain of misfortunes and chaos builds over her lively character, the less weight I feel on my chest. Perhaps it's getting better for her underneath it all. Either that's the case, or I'm just relieved to know that it has to come to an end. The moments linger then speed up, and just when everyone expects to know what happens, she rests her fan on the table beside her. She stands to her feet. First her colorful and patterned skirt is removed to unveil a pair of jeans cut at her knees. Next it's the blouse with ruffles at the end of the sleeves. Beneath nothing but a camisole. Lastly, she removes the wrap on her head, and the light highlights some intricate braiding. It's all on the floor in a pile next to her feet when she takes a bow.
I wasn't the first, but certainly is was on my mind to stand and convey my applause. In fact, nearly everyone is standing. The pounding returns, and she is again hidden in the tribe of dancers. A few more minutes pass, and the stage is empty. All that's left is the table, the fan, and the chair. The lights are back up, and only forty-five minutes have gone by. I'm still holding a flyer I got right as I entered the room. I step out into the lounge, and look it over. I'm more than shocked. It's two unlikely names in one place at one time.
I woke up in a sweat. I'm not sure why, but I headed strait for the bathroom. It's not as if I was the one with the pimple, but it had rocked me right out of my sleep with concern, and my concern led me to examine my face. There was nothing there. As I climbed back into bed, I picked up the card I'd held in my hand from the moment I'd received it, right up until I had made it home. I'd flipped it over and over and practically had all the information locked into my mind. I'd tried to get to the right person who could put me in touch with the producers, but it was one hand off after another. I usually always played the common card as oppose to the trump card. It was also part of setting my own path. It wasn't going to keep me from my pursuit of the matter. It just meant I'd have to show up for the lecture myself.
I propped the card up against the lamp on the table beside my bed. I kept the side that announced an encore performance of "The Girl Next Door" by An African Storyteller facing the open, and left the side that advertised an upcoming lecture series, "Thinking Outloud" by Tayeton Fisher facing the lamp. I leave the light on but on a dim setting. I rest my head back on my pillow. She's cuddled up next to me. She smells sweet. On second thought, it's her hair that's carrying that sweet scent. I kiss her cheek, and she pulls her face from under my arm. She's wake now, and she's smiling at me. I didn't notice it before, but there's a large pimple on her forehead. It's much bigger than anything you would see in reality and I can see that it's filled with pus. And that's what causes me to awaken again.
This time I prop my pillow up. I'm not new to dreams that come to me to warn me, and I've always known better than to ignore them. I think about the Griot and now I'm seeing doubles. If the woman in my dream had been a familiar face, I would have seen the parallel the first time I popped up. As it stands, now I'm wide awake.
Erased, a novel
Copyright 2018 by Natisha Renee Williams, All Rights Reserved
Grace Call Communications, LLC Copyright 2018
Chapter 22- The Girl Next Door
Sam- The lights are down. The room is still. The Griot has taken a startling turn, and she emphasizes it with a pause. She's sitting in a rocky chair. Her hair is wrapped in several pieces of cloth, and she carries the length of them on her head like she's in her homeland and it's a large jug of water. There's two spotlights; one circles her, and the other, a lesser light falls on a short table beside her. We're not exactly sure when she got there. It was sometime between the sounds of beating drums, and the interplay between three groups of dancers. It's a Friday evening, and the promoters have packed the place. I'm surprised because it's just a little bigger than the biggest hole in the wall. I haven't been here before, and I slipped in just before the lights went down. I thought there would mostly be an Afro centric crowd, but from what I can see there's more of us. I hadn't bothered to invite anyone; it's just work for me. I try to keep my ears on the ground. If I don't, we won't grow, and if I don't, it all happens seamlessly. It's hard to understand how art hides the way it does in a large town, but it certainly finds ways and places to stay out of the spotlight.
The pause has ended, and the people are breathing again. She has a fan in her hand and she looks to be waving off some of her thoughts, as if she doesn't think we can handle it. Her story is about a young woman. She hasn't given us her name. It's not the point so much as her descriptions of her and the madness she carries with her everywhere she goes. It's a kind of a warning; the story, but none of the words are quite lined up that way. She's heavy the Griot... I mean she looks like she has large bones. She fills out the chair, and every now and then when she begins to rock, it squeaks. The irony of the tale she tells is that as the mountain of misfortunes and chaos builds over her lively character, the less weight I feel on my chest. Perhaps it's getting better for her underneath it all. Either that's the case, or I'm just relieved to know that it has to come to an end. The moments linger then speed up, and just when everyone expects to know what happens, she rests her fan on the table beside her. She stands to her feet. First her colorful and patterned skirt is removed to unveil a pair of jeans cut at her knees. Next it's the blouse with ruffles at the end of the sleeves. Beneath nothing but a camisole. Lastly, she removes the wrap on her head, and the light highlights some intricate braiding. It's all on the floor in a pile next to her feet when she takes a bow.
I wasn't the first, but certainly is was on my mind to stand and convey my applause. In fact, nearly everyone is standing. The pounding returns, and she is again hidden in the tribe of dancers. A few more minutes pass, and the stage is empty. All that's left is the table, the fan, and the chair. The lights are back up, and only forty-five minutes have gone by. I'm still holding a flyer I got right as I entered the room. I step out into the lounge, and look it over. I'm more than shocked. It's two unlikely names in one place at one time.
I woke up in a sweat. I'm not sure why, but I headed strait for the bathroom. It's not as if I was the one with the pimple, but it had rocked me right out of my sleep with concern, and my concern led me to examine my face. There was nothing there. As I climbed back into bed, I picked up the card I'd held in my hand from the moment I'd received it, right up until I had made it home. I'd flipped it over and over and practically had all the information locked into my mind. I'd tried to get to the right person who could put me in touch with the producers, but it was one hand off after another. I usually always played the common card as oppose to the trump card. It was also part of setting my own path. It wasn't going to keep me from my pursuit of the matter. It just meant I'd have to show up for the lecture myself.
I propped the card up against the lamp on the table beside my bed. I kept the side that announced an encore performance of "The Girl Next Door" by An African Storyteller facing the open, and left the side that advertised an upcoming lecture series, "Thinking Outloud" by Tayeton Fisher facing the lamp. I leave the light on but on a dim setting. I rest my head back on my pillow. She's cuddled up next to me. She smells sweet. On second thought, it's her hair that's carrying that sweet scent. I kiss her cheek, and she pulls her face from under my arm. She's wake now, and she's smiling at me. I didn't notice it before, but there's a large pimple on her forehead. It's much bigger than anything you would see in reality and I can see that it's filled with pus. And that's what causes me to awaken again.
This time I prop my pillow up. I'm not new to dreams that come to me to warn me, and I've always known better than to ignore them. I think about the Griot and now I'm seeing doubles. If the woman in my dream had been a familiar face, I would have seen the parallel the first time I popped up. As it stands, now I'm wide awake.
Erased, a novel
Copyright 2018 by Natisha Renee Williams, All Rights Reserved
Grace Call Communications, LLC Copyright 2018
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