#Poe’s racist orangutan | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

engmjr419 · 4 years ago

Text

Missionaries to the Moon! God made the stars, exoticism, and the Moon Hoax of 1835

An illustration of a paper boy announcing the news of life on the moon from The American Heritage (1969). The story of the “lunar discoveries” was highly profitable for the paperboys, enabling a comfortable life for a few weeks. Source.

If you found out that an astronomer had sighted a utopian society of orangutan-faced bat people on the moon, what would you first thought be? To attempt to communicate with them? Maybe shrug and go on about your day? Write it off as a hoax? For some people in the 19th century, the first thought was to convert the flying, utopian bat people to Christianity.

In the late summer of 1835, an article was published in the New York Sun by its editor Richard Adams Locke, that would forever change journalism, fiction, and hoaxes in the American Sphere; it was also failed satire. In a series of articles, supposedly republished from a scientific journal and authored by John Herschel, the Sun revealed that life had been found on the moon, deer like unicorns, bison-esc creatures, and humanoids with thin membrane, bat-like wings. According to Locke it was supposed to be satire on the rapid scientific discoveries of the era alongside the newspaper culture, however it proved to be too believable. It gained massive popularity, spread by newsboys, talk, and other newspapers commenting on it, and people truly believed there was life on the moon that year.

Obviously, there wasn’t, but the event stands as a massive turning point in American culture. It’s one of the earliest mass instances of “yellow journalism” and newspaper-based hoax.

An illustration from the 1865 novel, From the Earth to the Moon by Jules Verns. The book is about the Baltimore Gun Club building a cannon to literally shoot people to the moon. Source.

It may not be surprising to find out that stories about the moon are nothing new. People have been looking up to it at night forever, after all. In a particularly similar pair of stories in 1638, The Discovery of a World in the Moone by John Wilkins and The Man in the Moone by Francis Godwins was published inspired by Galileo’s observations of the moon from his telescope. In the latter, a Spanish nobleman finds a species of swan-like birds in the West Indies who he attaches a harness to and they fly to the moon where they find “a place with plants, animals, and most surprisingly, a utopian civilization of tall, Christian people” (“Peoples & Creatures of the Moon”).

In a similar vein, the hoax was surrounded by a culture enthused about the celestial, scientific discovery, and religion. Hayley’s comet was set to return to earth after being gone for around 77 years, prompting interest in the heavens. John Herschel, one of the most popular astronomy of the century, had published Treatise on Astronomy only a year prior to great cultural acclaim. Poe had published a similar work about a journey to the moon via a newspaper crafted balloon published only weeks prior, which he would state was plagiarized. Finally, the 19th century was an era of scientific advancement, prompting even the most low-class person to be intrigued. Simply put, it was the perfect landing pad for the Bat People to land on.

The Moon Hoax of 1835 is surely an interesting event, that exposes certain aspects of the culture around it through its portrayal of the moon people, reactions to them, and the actions people attempted to take. As I stated before, some people’s reactions to the articles was to attempt missionary work upon the moon inhabitants. They wanted to send bibles, in odd hope to make them see the “error of their ways”. The audience placed the hierarchy of being, human morals, and imperialism onto the fictional people, reflecting how they treated Africa, China, and other “barbaric” countries.

This Moon Hoax is a form of exoticism through the (telescope) lens of fiction, as everything in the 19th century seems to be a discussion of race. It is the century that had the Civil War, blackface and minstrelsy, and de-legalization of slavery. Furthermore, around the year of 1835 figures like Joice Heth, Tom Rice, and other race-based attractions had become popular amongst the populace. In a culture that seems in an endless discussion of race, its impossible for the Moon Hoax to avoid it. To make a fictional “other” Locke had to look upon what society considered the “other”. Thus, The Moon Hoax of 1835 mirrors the way Americans viewed foreign countries through exoticism and imperialism. The moon was simply another foreign culture.

“The Whiteman’s Burden” from 1899 depicting Uncle Sam trudging after Britian’s figure of John Bull while stepping on stones labeled Barbarism, Oppression, Superstition, Ignorance, and Vice towards the top labeled “Civilization”. On his back, Uncle Sam carries racist caricatures of the non-white nations, most obviously Africans with Native American elements. Notice how they are drawn almost animalistically. Source.

The concepts of Exoticism and Imperialism tend to go hand in hand, one fetishizing a culture while the other overtakes it. British had already been colonizing land since the 17th century, including land within Africa, the Americas, the Caribbean, and Asia. While America would not truly begin a full on colonization project, the so called “Colonial project”, until the late 19th century, the nation would still hold onto the imperialist thoughts of the British who they had only parted ways with barely half a century ago.

Exoticism, a trend where a culture becomes enamored in the foreign to dehumanizing degrees, was everywhere in the 19th century. To the 19th century viewer, the exotic was fantastical, eye catching, and seemingly fictional. “New Yorkers could sample what seemed to be all the exotica the world had to offer: stuffed birds and reptiles, Indian utensils, Indian dresses, and sometimes the Indians themselves. Peale’s Museum, across from City Hall, was not featuring a “living ourang outang, or wild man of the woods” named Joe” (Goodman 8-9). “Exotic” humans were on the same level as foreign objects, compared to apes (like Joe) and mystical concepts, thus “The more compelling attractions, though, were always the human ones” (9). That summer, Joice Heth was already on display, an old black woman claiming to be George Washington’s Nursemaid from 1674, playing into peoples odd beliefs of the foreign, magical powers of the slaves. Heth stands as a singular figure in a long history of “black people on parade, from the auction block to the menagerie, from the first Africans captured and brought as slaves to James in 1619 to Ota Benga, shown in the Bronx Zoo as a pygmy savage in 1906” (Young 34).

The cover of the sheet music for “Zip Coon: A favorite comic song” sung by Mr G.W. Dixon from 1834. Dixon was a popular American entertainer, most notable for performing in Blackface as he sang “Coal Black Rose” and, obviously, “Zip Coon”. The lyrics of Zip Coon include “O ole Zip Coon he is a larned skoler” mimicking the language of African Americans. Source.

To add onto this parade of black figures, the imitation of the black figure had already become popular in the early 19th century through Minstrelsy. Minstrelsy being a form of theatre where white individuals would dress up in Black Face and exaggerate the actions and language of Black Americans to imitate them for humor. Figures such as G.W. Dixon and Thomas D. Rice (often stated to be the Father of Minstrelsy) were already performing before 1835. Thomas D. Rice is notable for playing Jim Crow, and adapting and popularizing a traditional slave song called “Jump Jim Crow”

Along with this, the new scientific discoveries and culture of the early 19th century was being used in tandem with Religion and Racial discussion:

“with phrenology emerging as just one of the many pseudosciences that sought to enact, reinforce, and restrict racial difference. Science, religion, and conceptions of race all confirmed one another: the Bible, the stars, and even the shapes of heads were enlisted over and over again to prove established prejudices true. “Objective” investigators constantly rediscovered that Negroes, Indians, and other dark races (some of them European, mind you) were indeed still inferior” (Young).

The culture surrounding race in the 19th century repeatedly tried to prove that it was truly important. People sought proof that the races were hierarchical, the white was superior, and that the “dark” were inferior. The “dark races” were caricatured as mishappen, monstrous (as seen in Joice Heth posters), and inhuman like the cartoon below.

“Puzzled which to Choose!! or, The King of Tombuctoo offering one of his daughters in marriage to Capt-“ from 1818, depicting an African king offering one of his daughters up for marriage to a white sea captain. The “wild” Africans are presented in grotesque, almost inhuman figures from the daughters exaggerated head shapes, to the faces of the crowd behind them. Meanwhile, the white foreigners are pictured as calm (save that one man on the left) and elegant in both figure and composure. Source.

In this era of Exoticism, and even today, the faces and bodies of non-whites are shown animalistically, to degrade them as being less than human. Later into the 19th century, figures like “What is It?” would be presented “beside “the great living Black Sea Lion” or literally beneath an albino family of “White Negreos, or Moors” and “What Can They Be? These most strange and MYSTERIOUS ANIMALS! Two in number and of distinct species, found in a cave in the hither-to unexplored Wilds of Africa” (Young 38). The foreign land would be presented as exotic, otherworldly, a region in need of taming (usually Christian-orientated taming).

Missionaries were one of the earliest to explore Central and Southern Africa in the early 19th century, before true colonization began. While these were viewed as good efforts, motives including teaching Africans to read and further education and helping those harmed by the slave trade (that had been outlawed In Britain only a year before the Moon Hoax), the main goal of these missionaries was to convert (“19th Century White Missionaries”). Christianity was used as a weapon against the Africans, calling their culture sinful and pushing Christianity as “civilization”. A first line from a collection of missionary accounts reads, “We have in this volume brought together the names of several of our most distinguished female heroines, who have toiled and suffered on heathen soil” (Eddy). Harriet Newell, called the proto-matyr by the author, describes the foreign world in regards to the Christian church, “the wail of a dying world as it echoed over land and ocean and sounded along our shores; she had not realized the great fact that every blackened tribe constitutes a part of the universal brotherhood of man” (13).

Let us not forget, the winner writes the history of the war and the missionary writes the account of their work. Missionaries accounts were some of the only exposures the early 19th century individual got to other cultures. This is not to say missionaries did not have a genuine interest in helping the African people, it is only to say that Christianity was used as a tool of Imperialism during this century with the goal of an abstract concept of civilization.

A French print published alongside the 1935 story, claiming to show all the Moon’s creatures and plants. The lushness of it is reminiscent of the forests of Africa and South America. Source.

The Moon Hoax thus illustrates the most foreign area possible to the 19th century reader, the moon. Exoticism is a part of why the hoax became so popular, the description of another world, with odd, strange creatures, people, and geography. The land is described, “It was an oval valley, surrounded except at narrow opening towards the south, by hills, red as the purest vermilion, and evidently crystallized” along with animals:

“Having all the external characteristics of the bison, but more diminutive than any species of the bos genus in our natural history. Its tail is like that of our bos grunniens; but in its semi-circular horns, the hump on its shoulders, and the depth of its dewlap, and the length of its shaggy hair, it closely resembled the species to which I first compared it” (Locke 10).

The account of the Moon Hoax uses this mixture of scientific language with the fantastical, an attempt to make the world seem real through evidence but at the same time “exotic”. The moon would appear to the populace as proof of the hospitality of the universe, a gift of god. However, that so called “missionary moon” is set against the history of exoticism, “not just in the black of outer space but in the perceived darkness of Africa, which, to most of the Sun’s readers, may have seemed just as distant, hostile, and in need of saving” (Young).

The Moon of Locke’s Moon Hoax is representative of peoples thoughts of the foreign countries, particularly Africa. Its notable that Locke says these observations of the moon from the Cape of Good Hope, a headland in South Africa. The appearance of the inhabitants, most particularly the Bat People, find themselves uncomfortably close to “a range of racial types” and “stereotypically black” (Young).

“Vespertilio homo” from Neapel, 1836. The Bat People are depicted as covered with dark hair, with thin anatomy, and bat wings. Source.

Vespertilio Homo are noted as having “short and glossy copper-colored hair”, a face like a “large orang outang”, and “The mouth, however, was very prominent, …and by lips far more human”. Their hair is described as “a darker color than that of the body, closely curled, but apparently not wooly” (Locke 15). They are instantly claimed as being rational beings, simply for being human-esc in form in context to the “Great Chain of Being” (a Christian belief that the human form is the top of a hierarchical pyramid). The activities of these beings are described as “their amusements would but ill comport with our terrestrial notions of decorum (social etiquette)” , simply put, the narrator shames them for less “civilized” entertainment implied to be of the sexual variety (16).

Upon seeing a different tribe of these creatures, the narrator describes them as “larger stature than the former specimens, less dark in color, and in every respect an improved variety of the race” calling back to the pseudoscientific beliefs of the “Dark” races being inferior (21). Locke creates this lighter skinned version of the bat people, puts them at a higher civilization structure than the darker one, and then has the narrator state them to be the improved variety. The narrator praises the lighter skinned variety of bat people for this odd activity of sharing fruit and indulging in a triangle-based religion, while the darker variety get shamed for indulging in each other.

The Bat People of the Moon are placed under this Christian tinted, anthropocentric lens (Along side the telescope lens) that value their actions based on human morality and religion. Who says that the Bat People are the most civilized species, when the biped beavers appear to have huts? They are considered such simply because they resemble the human form, thus they are forced under this colonial lens, the same one the African people and other “barbaric” nations are put under. The darker skinned variety are instantly labeled “heretics” just as the Africans were by missionaries, while the lighter variety are praised for indulging in what appears to be religion. They are placed under the imperial lens, that states what a culture should and shouldn’t do in line with the Christian ideal.

So, to finally talk on the matter that people wanted to send Bibles to the Moon, it seems like a logical conclusion to the 19th century Missionary-orientated Christian. They are given a fictional, foreign world, bereft of the “Holy Ghost”, that echoes the cultures view of Africa, Asia, and other foreign areas If you cannot send missionaries to the moon, bibles are the next best thing.

The New Negro by Allan R. Freelon. A form of an African American wanders in a strange world, notice the hanged bodies in the background in front of three crosses alongside a face of African art. Source.

The Moon Hoax of 1935 stands as an important cultural flagstone in American Culture. It is stated to be the birth of the modern concept of fake journalism and alerting readers to begin reading askance. It stands as an important point of spiritual and celestial interest. It also an excellent way to see how fiction interacts with culture, and how that culture represents itself inside how fiction depicts. The Bat People are echoes of the African, the Asian, the Indian, and how the American and English saw these people. They are placed under a lens of anthropocentric values, then immediately criticized for not meeting those values. These fictional mashups of bat and man are degraded, praised, criticized, and ranked from seemingly insignificant actions that are characteristic of animals. The fact people wanted to convert them is no surprise, it seemed to be the first action the 19th century person did upon meeting a foreign country. Let us not forget the Crusades, after all.

This hoax stands to me as the opposite of Afrofuturism (A sci-fi genre that explores the diaspora of African people with modern society). It is a strange exploration of race, of a new world, of a new century where the Moon is inhabited by Bat People and humans want to convert them to Christianity. As people argue if fiction affects reality or not, it is clear that reality affects fiction. If the Moon Hoax of 1935 is not also evidence for the reverse, then what is?

Works Cited

Eddy, Daniel Clarke. “Daughters of the Cross: or, Woman’s Mission”. Dayton and Wentworth, 1855. Pg. 13.

Goodman, Matthew. “The Sun and the Moon: The Remarkable True Account of Hoaxers, Showmen, Dueling journalists, and Lunar Man-Bats in Nineteenth-Century New York”. Perseus Books Group, 2008. Pgs. 8-9.

Locke, Richard Adams. “Great Astronomical Discoveries Lately Made By Sir John Herschel”. The Sun, August 25th, 1835. Pgs. 10, 15-16, 21.

Young, Kevin. “Moon Shot: Race, a Hoax, and the Birth of Fake News”. The New Yorker, October 21, 2017. https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/moon-shot-race-a-hoax-and-the-birth-of-fake-news

Young, Kevin. “Bunk: The Rise of Hoaxes, Humbug, Plagiarists, Phonies, Post-Facts, and Fake News”. Graywolf Press, 2017. Pgs. 34-38.

“19th Century White Missionaries”. BBC World Service. https://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/africa/features/storyofafrica/8chapter4.shtml

“Peoples & Creatures of the Moon”. Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/collections/finding-our-place-in-the-cosmos-with-carl-sagan/articles-and-essays/life-on-other-worlds/peoples-and-creatures-of-the-moon

#The Moon Hoax #1935 #Exoticism

0 notes

thewritersintent-blog · 6 years ago

Text

13 Ghosts 2: The Torso

Trigger Warnings: depiction of mental illness (schizophrenia), racism, swearing, graphic depiction of death & dead body/graphic depiction of violence, attempted suicide (not carried out), & slurs.

Word Count: 8,676

Quick Note: I am not a black man no am I schizophrenic. This story has not been read by a sensitivity reader, and therefor may contain inaccuracies. If I offended - if anything is off, please let me know. I want to learn. I am trying to figure out how to use - how to find sensitivity readers.

There are a few rules city pedestrians can agree upon. Do not look like a tourist; avoid taking out maps, looking lost, and taking pictures of famous locations. Be vigilant: keep your bag in front of you or your hand on your bag, watch where you’re going and who you are with. Don’t make eye contact with the homeless.

“How you doin’, man? Need help or somethin’?”

The last one was a bit harder to follow when one ran into the large, gap-tooth grinned Bernard Torrance - Torry to his friends - Wright.

A young man looked up from where he had been fidgeting with the parking meter. He had to crane his neck up to look Torry in the eye. He blinked, more than a little thrown off by the man’s cheerful demeanor. “N-no,” he mumbled, looking back down again. He hit the parking meter with a closed fist, hoping it would finally just take his quarter and let him go.

“Hate to bother you, man, but, uh, that’s a bitch right there.” Torry took a step forward and raised his fist. The smaller man violently flinched. He didn’t look at him as he brought his fist down with a loud thunk! onto the side of the old green parking meter. It made a strange noise like it was starting up, and then spit out his ticket. Torry ripped the ticket off and handed it to the man, who gazed at it in shock and awe, like he was handed Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.

“Th-thank you,” he stuttered.

Torry shrugged. “No problem. Dis meter not always workin’, but nobody come out to fix it. I try to tell ‘em, but most just tell me to fuck off, ya know? Ain’t nobody want to listen to some homeless dude.” He patted the man on the back, seeming to snap him out of whatever awe-inspired state he was in. He quickly smiled and ran off to his car. Torry grinned after him, nodded to something off to the side, before turning and heading down the street to the library.

***

Torry stood outside the library, grinning up at it. He loved it here, loved it since he was a kid. He made a point of coming here once a day, every day, just to look around at everything. Maybe check out a book or two. It was a lot harder when he had a job. Guess that’s one of the benefits of not having a place to work - you can do what you want, when you want. Usually. He still made a point to go home every night - a homeless man with a home, heh, funny - go to his sister’s house, have a meal, take his meds, a shower, and sleep. He was lucky to have her. Hated relying on her and her husband, but lucky all the same. Torry fixed his green beanie more tightly onto his head. Now if only he had enough sense, some focus, to apply - fill out job applications. His grin widened a little. It wasn’t focus he needed; he needed someone just to hire him, warts and all. Torry laughed a little, startling a small woman walking into the library. He flashed her his toothy grin, which she shakily returned. He put his hands into his baggy jean pockets, sighed - an action which pushed his large chest out, raised his shoulders, lifted him onto the balls of his feet before settling back down, relaxed. He continued to stare, a little dreamily at the building, just as he did every day.

The library was a beautiful building. It might not have been the most glamourous, but there was no denying that the architect put a lot of thought into the design. It’s basic shape was a cube - no point in fixing what ain’t broke, that’s what his mama always said - held together with brick, mortar, and a little granite. There were thirteen steps to the top, thirteen regular sized, smaller steps, and one large one, a landing. Can’t have thirteen of anything, that’s bad luck. Very bad luck, mama. The architect was smart enough to add that landing, but not smart enough to add a ramp - that had to come later, some fifty or so years after the building had first been constructed. They had tried to match the aesthetic of the stairs, but it looked too new. They should have roughed it up a bit before opening it up to everyone.

The building had two levels available to the public and one that was strictly offices. Windows - big and clear despite that number of hands that touched them - looked out onto the streets below. The doors were large - big enough for giants to walk through, small giants, though. Torry liked to think giants were over ten feet. Twenty feet was scarier than ten. Imagine Jack looking up at a twenty foot tall giant versus a ten footer. Scared shitless no matter what, but the hand on the twenty footer would be way more intimidating, all encompassing, deadly. Fee fi fo fum.

The only unique thing about this building were the statues, the little busts, that lined the steps. The architect had decided to add a bust on either side of the staircase, each representing a famous author and their corresponding genre. Thirteen steps plus a landing made for twenty-eight busts plus one large one in the entryway of the architect himself, some old white guy named Bartholomew Winterhouse. Well, his bust wasn’t white - it was copper or some other red material. He just looked white. And that name, pretty damn white sounding. Torry thought he once read a book about Mr. Winterhouse, but he couldn’t remember. If he had it was before the accident, and he couldn’t remember much before the accident.

Torry climbed the steps to the library, slowly, methodically. He greeted each bust with a “Hey, how you doin’, man, good to see you. No bird shit on ya, I see!” and “Ma’am, you look lovely today, yes, lookin’ good. Fine little golden statue you are.” The busts made no reply. In the back of his mind, he knew it was strange, greeting inanimate objects, just as he knew whenever he did so, he received odd looks from passerbys. He didn’t care. God would judge him. No one here had the ability to do so.

He reached the top of the steps and pushed passed the doors. They were open, wide open, like the arms of a friend. He smiled at the female security officer - Dana Blechman, nice lady - who returned his smile. Still good with the ladies. Always good. Torry walked up to the information booth, just inside the doors. He didn’t need anything; he practically lived at this library - hell, they should hire him he was here so often, knew so much about the place. That would help him. He once asked about it, if there were any openings. The woman behind the counter - she had been a cute thing, reminded him of his niece, Sharkeisha - no, that was his cousin - niece’s name started with an A...Alayah? No. Allyson? Shit, he’d remember it eventually. Yeah, the cute woman behind the counter, she had told him unfortunately the library only hires those with a MA in library sciences. He had laughed and asked her what kind of a degree that was. He had started talking about book nerds in lab coats, reading Shakespeare and pouring chemicals into vials, someone shouting that this concoction would prove that Poe was writing some racist shit in that orangutan story. The lady librarian had laughed at that. He liked her. Kara, her name was. Why did that name come easier to him than his own goddamn niece? Ariel? Alexis? Fuck, what white girl name did his sister give that girl?

He liked Kara and all of them at the library because they were cool. That’s how he would say it. An academic or one of those Freud doctors - psychologists? Psychiatrists? - would probably have phrased it as “Mr. Wright was ostracized as a semi-homeless man, stereotyped to be unclean, insane, and grossly uneducated. The library offered him a safe space off the streets, a place where his idle brain and hands could find some use, while the librarians looked passed his old clothes and slight smell and saw the intellectual that he was, a well-read man in an unfortunate circumstance.” Maybe a little duller; scientists had a tendency to not use language to their advantage, choosing form over function in their writings.

Torry approached the booth and quickly scanned the line of people behind the desk. Kara was here today, all right. So was...Jimmy Gambino, Gracelle, and...he squinted at the end of the line. Someone new. He didn’t recognize that shock of blue - turquoise - hair or those ugly-ass white framed glasses. He needed to introduce himself. Proper.

He waited in line. There weren’t too many people there. Most who came to the library knew what they wanted and didn’t bother with the information booth. Torry smiled at those walking by; they often returned the smiles or stopped to say hi before going left - science fiction and fantasy - right - children and young adult - or upstairs - everything under the sun. A couple small kids - looked to be about three and five - ran up to him. Their mama followed a couple feet behind, bags under her eyes, and hair up in a haphazard bun. Her stomach and chest were swollen.

Torry crouched down and grinned. “How you doin’, there?” he asked the three year old.

The kid didn’t answer, instead yammering about their morning, getting dressed, eating breakfast, coming here. A whole lot of nothing. Torry kept grinning, nodding along with the kid. A couple of “ah yeah,” and “I know that,” and the kid was grinning along with him. Kids liked that. It didn’t matter if you had any clue what they were saying, as long as you pretended, they were on cloud freaking nine. His niece and nephew were a lot like that. Especially his nephew, always talking up a storm. Mitchell? No, no? What was his daddy’s name? Mishawn? No - that’s way off. Michael! Yeah, Michael. Sweet kid, like this little guy here.

He looked at the older kid - two boys, mama must have her hands full - and said, “What are you here for, man? Spider-man or somethin’?”

The bigger boy kept his eyes down, shaking his head. Shy little guy, huh. Torry kept his distance - shy people liked their space - and tried again. “Nah, you wouldn’t like him. You don’t look like the Spidey type, though - ya know, Spidey’s black now!” The kid glanced up, eyes wide. “Yeah, Miles Something. Some M sounded name. Not good with names, here. But yeah, he’s a black kid. Might wanna check him out. My nephew - his name’s Michael. Michael Alexander Templeton Junior - MJ - he likes the spider-kid. But you -” Torry looked the kid up and down, pursing his lips for a second before breaking into a megawatt smile - “you like that magic shit - shoot, crap, right?” The kid finally looked up, into Torry’s face. Jackpot. “Harry Potter, that kid’s more your style, yeah?” He nodded, cautious and unsure. “Now I never read no Harry Potter, but my sister’s kids love him. And I seem them movies, great stuff, great stuff. Books probably better.” He nodded again, a little more sure. “You know, my shit - crap, don’t you start swearing, no copying me - my favorite was uh...Tol...Tolkien. That guy with the hobbits and shi - stuff. I liked that. Tolkien and Beagle and, uh, Christ what was his name...Pullman and Pratchett. Ya read their stuff?” The kid shook his head. His eyes were wide, absorbing everything Torry said. Their mom stood behind him, a hand on her enormous belly, rubbing gently. She looked cautious but had a strained sense of calm around her, like she was trying to appear relaxed around this big guy talking to her young boys. Torry couldn’t blame her. “You should, you should. Hobbit, and uh, Last Unicorn by Beagle, and...Discworld by Pratchett. They the best. Go and check them out and let me know what you think.” The boy nodded, his little brother nodding along with him, and they took off.

Torry laughed. He smiled at the mom and stood up. The line had all but disappeared. He watched the mom follow after her boys in the children’s section. They should find all those books there, if not...he might have to talk. Actually…

He approached the last person at the information booth. Blue hair. It was pretty. They were pretty. Pale skin, no zits or anything, a little soft looking, like a chubby Bambi, cute little deer with round cheeks and bright eyes. Torry grinned and leaned on the counter.

“Are you here?” he asked.

Blue Hair looked a little confused. Torry leaned in - not too close, don’t wanna appear like a creep - and read the name tag. Charlotte. Pretty name.

“Miss Bronte - that what your mama and daddy have in mind? Or was they thinking about E.B. White?”

Charlotte blinked, stunned. “Uh, no, no. It’s my grandmother’s name.” Her voice was soft, light. “She passed shortly before I was born. I uh, never really thought about it, but yeah, Charlotte Bronte and, uh Charlotte’s Web. Usually I, uh, get one or the other. Can I help you with anything today, sir?”

‘Sir.’ He liked that. Not in a weird way. He had been calling people sir and ma’am his entire life; felt nice to have it turned on him. Being treated with respect. “Well, I got a couple things. First, is you really here?”

“Yes?”

“Gonna sound rude here, Miss Bronte, but the question makes me suspicious.”

“I don’t know, uh, what you mean by that question.”

Torry laughed a little. Course she wouldn’t understand. Well, he shouldn’t judge. Man don’t judge - that’s God’s job. His sister understood to an extent, but she didn’t really understand. Sympathy versus empathy. Something like that. “Sometimes I see people that I saw passing by on the street,” he explained. “I see some guy with a pretty red bird and suddenly I’m seeing him all over - the diner, this here library, the train tracks. And he ain’t really there. Everybody around me say so.”

“Oh. Oh, no I’m, uh, I’m here. Just started today.”

“Well, alright, good.” He turned behind him. No one was in line behind him. And Eamon wasn’t there either. Good. Just once today, after he helped that nervous kid at the meter. Once is good. More than that...not so good. And he was having a good day. “Gonna be a good day,” he mumbled, more to himself.

“Is there anything else I can help you with…?”

He turned his famous gap-toothed grin on her. “Bernard Torrance Wright Junior. Everyone calls me Torry.”

“Torry,” she said, lips quirking a little. “Parents name you after, uh, Jack and Danny Torrance from The Shining?”

He laughed, loud and deep. Man, she was funny. Like his sister and niece - they were quick. “Nah, but you’d think that, wouldn’t you? No offence. That was smart. Nah, it’s my daddy’s name - don’t know where Torrance came from except his mama. Funny thing is my sister’s name, her name’s Susannah.”

“Like Susannah Dean?”

“Yes and no. Coincidence. Funny, though, right?”

“Very funny.” She was smiling. Torry looked again behind him. Still no one.

“Her middle name...my mama’s name was Cairo, like the city in Egypt.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and, uh, she liked to say - my mama liked to say that she was descended from the queens, the pharaohs you know? I think if my daddy woulda let her, she woulda named me Osiris or some shit. ‘Scuse me, crap. He let her do what she wanted with Susannah, though, so mama named her Seshat.”

“I can’t remember that one.”

“Iss okay. Seshat was uh, a librarian and scribe. Focused her talents mostly on accounting, math, history, and astronomy. Think that’s why my sister is a - a teacher.”

“Makes sense.”

“She got two kids, my sister. Her and her husband. He also a teacher, a math one, I think. Her kids...she got a boy named Michael Alexander Templeton Junior - common to name your boys after their daddy - and a girl...shoot, can’t remember her name.”

“That’s all right. Is there anything book-related I can help you with?”

He jerked his head. Shit, maybe he wasn’t gonna have such a good day. Jerking was never a good sign. Did he take his meds? Torry looked down at his hands. They were shaking. No, no, he took them. Susannah always made sure he did - she was good to him. Why was he shaking, jerking? He clenched them into fists and put them in his pockets. He looked around. More people were in the library, but there was no line behind him. Jimmy was helping a kind-looking old lady, but that was about it. Torry held down another jerk, and looked back at Charlotte.

“Yeah, sorry. Get distracted easily. Uh, just wanted to make sure you got some books in the children’s section and not the fantasy.”

“Which ones?” She sat up a little straighter, looking eager to please, and typed something into her computer.

“I shoulda checked, but I don’t go into the children’s section that much.”

“That’s okay.”

“Uh, The Hobbit, Last Unicorn by uh, Peter S. Beagle -” she was typing into her computer, eyes focused completely on the screen - “Discworld by Pratchett - can’t remember his first name - and uh, Golden Compass by Mr. Philip Pullman.” He waited a second. “Last one might also be under Northern Lights - they changed the name in America for some reason. Maybe they think we don’t know about the lights.”

“They do that a lot,” Charlotte said. “At least often enough. Harry Potter is The Sorcerer’s Stone here but The Philosopher’s Stone everywhere else. Publishers were afraid Americans wouldn’t understand the book was about magic, so they changed the title.”

“Thinkin’ we idiots when we beat their butts in the war.”

Charlotte grinned at him. “Right? Looks like we have all of those in -”

“Excuse me.”

A man appeared next to Torry. He squinted at the man - no, he was a white dude. Nothing like Eamon. Shorter than Torry - most men were, mama used to say Torry was built like a damn bull, he was so huge - with a crop of gelled over dark blonde hair. He looked professional, in a nice pair of navy trousers, white collared shirt, and a beige cardigan. Looked like he was a librarian, though Torry couldn’t recognize him. He squinted harder. Shit, was this another faker?

Charlotte looked between the man and Torry. “I’m sorry, sir. I was helping him -”

“I need your help.”

Charlotte looked down the information booth, slowly. Torry followed her gaze. Kara, Jimmy, and Gracelle were all at their spots, smiling at the incommers. No one was in front of them. “I’m sure one of my colleagues would be able to help you, Mr.”

Torry snorted. He shouldn’t have, but it was funny. The man gave him a dirty look, before turning back to Charlotte.

She ignored him and turned her body a little more firmly towards Torry. “Sorry, uh. All those books are in the children’s section, except for, well, most of Discworld. We have a few copies of The Shepherd's Crown checked out -”

“I have a meeting in Room 192,” the man looked pissed. Not as pissed as Charlotte, who quickly tired to school her face into a kind expression, but still pretty pissed. Middle aged, white woman about to ask for the manager pissed. “I need to know where Room 192 is.”

“Sir, we have maps right over there by my colleague, Jimmy. Jim - can you -”

“I don’t want a map. I want you to tell me.”

Torry scowled down at him. He knew he was no faker - even in his fucked-up mind Torry couldn’t come up with a dickhead like this guy. He shook his head. Susannah told him he shouldn’t say that. He wasn’t fucked-up. He had a condition. Million had it, she had told him. When mama died, Susannah took over everything - including Torry. She insisted - hell, begged him to get help, and he accepted it. Anything for her. He felt better too. The fakers disappeared - mostly, Eamon still popped up, but the doctors - she even got him doctors, Susannah, she really was good to him - said it might be something else. Maybe he had PTSD or something. He had laughed because that’s what he needed, two things wrong with him. Everything had gone well until he forgot to take his meds, and then it was like a snowball. An avalanche. Susannah and Michael Senior opened their home - he was lucky, so lucky. Michael offered to help get him a job, but Torry declined. He was stubborn, too much like their mama and daddy to accept that. He could take help from his little sister, but...not when it came to a job. That he had to get on his own. He just had to.

He snorted and the man glared at him. “What?” he asked angrily.

Torry shouldn’t have said anything. He should have shaken his head and let Charlotte deal with the dickhead. But he was his parent’s child, silly as that sounded. And just like Bernard Torrance Wright Senior and Ciaro Norman Wright, he did not have a filter when it came to assholes.

“You’re just being a dick, man. You need to wait your turn. Plenty a people will help ya. Kara, Jimmy, and, uh, Gracie. They’re just sittin’ there. You wanna pick a fight, kick the black guy outta line.”

“Are you calling me a racist?” The man looked like he was gonna start foaming at the mouth. Jesus. Torry looked around at the library. People stopped and were staring. Some had taken out their phones and were recording this. Everybody gets interested when a white person looks to be fighting with a black one, especially when that “R” word gets thrown about.

“I didn’t say nothing about that.” Torry said. “I just said you wanna pick a fight, otherwise you woulda gone to someone else, not Miss Bronte over here.”

“Why did you bring race into it? I’m not racist!”

Torry snorted. The man’s eyes started bugging out of his head. A faint snicker coursed through their growing audience. Dana Blechman slowly made her way into the room, hand going towards her walkie-talkie. He laughed a little. Shit.

“Sure you ain’t, man. Sorry I offended. Look, I’ll just step aside -”

“Do you know who I am?”

Ah fuck. Why couldn’t this white dude drop shit? Torry raised his eyebrows. The man pushed up on his tiptoes - any other time that would have been funny, had he not been on the receiving end - and got into Torry’s face. He looked deranged, eyes wide, a sneer curling his mouth.

“I am Ryan Pollick, the youngest lawyer to ever make it to Richmond and Kaymuk’s Law Firm - the youngest lawyer in the city, hell, the state! I have friends in high places, pal, black friends too. You need to show some respect!”

Torry looked down at him. Pollick was breathing heavily. Torry nodded once, then turned to Charlotte. “The Wee Free Men is in stock? Color of Magic,too?”

Charlotte’s mouth opened. She shut it quickly then looked at her screen. “N-no,” she said. “Wee Free Men is in stock in the children’s section - we have about two copies, but The Color of Magic is - well, it’s in stock, but it’s in the fantasy section. We only have -”

“Tiffany Aching in the children’s section,” Torry finished. Charlotte nodded. Torry smiled at her. “Thank you, Miss Bronte.” He turned back to Pollick. The man had sunk back to his feet, but looked no less ferocious. Like a chihuahua in a purse. Torry pointed up the stairs. “Room 192 is up the stairs. Landing you can see splits off into two sections - you’ll wanna take the one on the left and stay left. Those take you to conferences and offices. Even numbers on left, odd on right. There a couple breaks, but keep goin;’ those are just bathrooms and closets. Have a nice day, Bollock.”

Torry waved goodbye to the information booth and started to walk out. The room rumbled quietly as people started to discuss what they just witnessed. Torry raised his hand to Blechman, who nodded, looking relieved.

He hopped down the steps, now going down the right side, quietly saying hi to each of the statues before turning down the street.

***

Torrance ended up spending most of the day in the park, reading an old copy of Wyrd Sisters. He had read it before - hell, he had read all of Pratchett’s books at least a dozen times - and the pages were falling out. Might have to ask Susannah to a new copy. All his books were starting to look like they belonged in the trash.

He held the book in his hand, tracing over the cartoonish depictions of Pratchett’s characters. He hoped that boy checked him out. It was a good series. Good themes and shit.

Torry cracked his neck, and tossed his bag over his shoulder. He began making his way to the train tracks.

***

The sun had gone down when he had finished Wyrd Sisters. He smiled to himself and put the book back into his backpack. He didn’t usually finish things. TV shows, food, books; getting ready was like revving up an old car - a lot of stop and go. It was part of his condition. Least that’s what Susannah said.

He sat back on the grassy space next to the tracks. It was his favorite spot next to the library. Besides the library. The tracks were nowhere near the library. He had always liked trains, more so as a kid. They felt like the start of something. What? Anything. They could - would if you had paid the price - take you anywhere, take you away from everything. After Eamon...Torry shook his head. Before Eamon. Before.

He never was good with time. Past time. Backwards clocks. They were difficult to remember. Moving forwards - when the library opened, when his sister and brother-in-law went to work, when the kids went to school - those times were clear as day. A good day with lots of sun and shine.

It had to be before the accident, though. He was always like this, always a little off. He saw things that weren’t there, heard things no one else could. They were never malignant - no, that’s a tumor. What’s the word? Malicious. That’s it, malicious - they were never malicious, so he had never thought they were a problem. Until mama and daddy found out. Then it was a problem. He was too old for them to pass it off as imaginary friends - since when is too old too old for imaginary friends? Who decides this shit? - and that’s when it became an issue. That’s when he knew he was fu - messed up. He had a condition.

It wasn’t given a name until after - was it after? Yeah, it was after. Ambulance had taken him to the hospital to check and see if he had a concussion. No concussion. A few broken ribs, a broken nose, and a mind that had been broken forever. Didn’t know why. Well, knew why his body was broken, but not his mind. Nobody knows that.

He remembered the doctors - not the ones that fixed his body, other ones. Ones that asked him lots of questions about things he’s seen and heard. The doctors told his parents and Susannah. Why had she been there? Cause of Eamon. Eamon was gone. And then, shit, then he said those bad things. “E didn’t fit so God took him out. Shoulda named him John Coffrey or Ben Hanscom. Christian names. Names that fit us. He wouldn’t have died if he had the right name.” Mama broke down and cried. Daddy didn’t know what to say, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Susannah just looked sad. When the doctors told them - “we think your son had schizophrenia” - they hadn’t said a thing. They had looked relieved. There was a word for it.

And what a word. Torry shifted in the grass and stared over the tracks. Schizophrenia. Starts with a snake noise. Hisss. Then a sharp C, like cookie. Piercing like thoughts and images, like Eamon broken and bloody, flying out the car windshield.. A soft I, sounding kinda like when you don’t know how to reply. “Eh.” But with an I. “Phren” like saying “friends,” which is funny ‘cause when you have the diagnosis of schizophrenia, ain’t no one wanna be your friend; you just have your sister, if that. Susannah’s a good friend, good sister. She don’t think so but she is; she just got a stubborn older brother, that’s it. Then - where was he? - ah. A soft sound to round the whole thing out. It was pretty. A pretty word for something he couldn’t explain.

Torry looked at his backpack. Maybe...maybe he’ll go home tonight. Go to Susannah and Michael’s home. Have dinner. Sleep. Take a shower. Oh, nice long shower. Nothing out of the ordinary. Take his meds. Ask Susannah if he took them this morning. Then...and yeah, maybe he’ll take Michael up on that offer. Get that janitorial job. Then...then move out and be a man again. Susannah would still insist on paying for his meds and doctor visits - making sure he took everything. That would be okay. So long as he was taking in his own, wasn’t crowding their space.

He looked up at the hill across the tracks and the bridge above. There was some graffiti up there. How did anyone get up there? They got stilts or something? Stand on top of the train and spray a design before it goes? Gotta be Flash to do that shit. God...God would be there. Maybe that’s what this morning was all about. God telling him to go ask Michael. That’s what mama would say. God is reaching out to you, boy. That’s what she’d say.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Torry turned. Some guy was stumbling towards him. Looked drunk, his shirt pulled out of his trousers, cardigan askew. Ass-cue. Funny. Torry took a deep breath. Smelled drunk too. Nasty beer. Nothing fancy, just...nasty. He looked familiar. Wrong, though. Like deja vu, but you know something’s wrong. Torry squinted. The man came closer. Ah, shit.

“You, fuck, you got me fired you, shit fuck!”

Torry started to stand up. He knew he shouldn’t have said anything to that white guy. What was his name? Bollocks? Weird name.

“Look, man, I didn’t do nothing. Sorry you looked bad -”

“I did nothing wrong! You can’t even - you don’t - I needed to know where to go, and you made a scene!” There was spittle coming out of Bollock’s mouth. A bit landed on Torry’s cheek. Nasty. Nasty beer leads to spit and nasty attitude. Torry didn’t wipe it off. Might piss off Bolly; anything can piss off a drunk, and a pissed off drunk is worse than an angry drunk.

He backed up. No one’s coming. He could cross the hill and start to Susannah’s house. He turned his back, and made his way down his hill. Jack and Jill.

“I’m fucking talking to you!”

He ignored him. Something shattered - beer bottle - next to him. He started walking faster.

“Hey! Hey, shit fuck, come back here!”

What kind of a name is shit fuck? Your name is Bollocks. You have no room to call anyone a shit fuck, whatever that was. Can’t even come up with good nicknames, why are you scared? Torry - he wasn’t scared of him hurting him. Being hurt. He didn’t want conflict. Not alone, not with a drunk.

Heavy footsteps behind him. Torry thought he should turn back and say something. What? No. No that wouldn’t do anything. Don’t need the cops called. Don’t need to be hurt. Does he have a gun? A weapon? Doesn’t matter. Drunks will do anything, use anything. There was another noise getting louder, rumbling. Rumble. Rumble. Like a lion. Purring. Lions don’t purr, though. Rocks, pebbles, really, chattered at his feet. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit -

“Fuck! I said -”

Torry turned around. What a sight! Two bugged-eyed men, mouths wide. One short, semi-polished white guy, looking like a vase someone knocked off a shelf. The other a big black dude in mixed-matched clothes, alternative style. Mirrors. Carnival mirrors.

“Man, we gotta go somewhere else. Train’s coming!”

“You think I give a fuck about the train?”

“You will when it kill you. Come on, let’s go!”

He shouldn’t have said that. Drunks don’t like to be told what to do. Not angry drunks. The man’s eyes got wide and he stomped over to Torry. He tried to side step him, but the guy got in his space. “Don’t. You. Fucking. Tell. Me. What. To. Do. You. Shit. Fucking. Ni -.” Each word punctuated with a shovel or a jab in the chest. Noises getting louder, so louder. Harder to hear the white guy, though he knew what he said. The word on so many white guy’s tongues, in the back of their throats. A word ready to spill over, be thrown out like a boomerang; but they don’t want that to come back. They want it to be like one of those shitty boomerangs on TV. They fly and hit something, and don’t ever come back. But they do. Maybe not a minute later, maybe only a little later, maybe years - but it comes back and strikes them on the back of the head. And they cry asking what happened. Cause they forgot. But he didn’t. Black folks don’t. You remember. You remember.

What Torry remembered suddenly, as he was pushed into the tracks, as the train sounded, loud and violent, no longer like a lion, but something man made, piercing and sudden, no preamble, was her name. Annaleise. A searing pain. Bright light. Loud. Annaleise was louder, though. Annaleise Anut Templeton. The warrior.

***

The police, ambulance, and fire arrived half an hour later. They had received a frantic call from the condoctor about a man falling in front of his train. “I couldn’t stop”, the conductor had said, his voice hoarse from crying. They had assured him it wasn’t his fault.

It was gross - there was no other word for it. The body lay in two pieces. A big man, maybe seven feet tall when pieced together. The conductor had said he fell into the tracks and stumbled backward, tried to get his footing to jump off. He didn’t make it. The man had turned enough to where his torso was off the tracks - and that’s where it hit him. His lower half still lay on the tracks, a bloody mess. The clothes mashed with the meat and bone. Blood was everywhere.

The torso wasn’t clean, just...cleaner. Blood and entrails fell around the torso. Some still connected it to the pile that had been his lower half. His backpack was open slightly, torn book pages flying around him and those at the scene. Some pages framed his head and upper back, like a warped halo.

The worst part was his face. Bulging eyes and mouth, opened wide at the horror. As though he knew the train was coming. As though he wasn’t supposed to be there.

***

2 Years Later.

Pete Sampson stood at the edge of the railroad tracks. He swallowed and checked his watch. Five minutes. He straightened his back and rocked on the balls of his feet. It would be quick. It was quick for that one guy - Benjamin or whatever his name was. Guy made the news for how graphic it was. Pete swallowed again. Best to focus on the quickness rather than...the aftermath.

“Whatcha doin’ here, man?”

Pete turned his head. A young black man stood just a few feet away from him. He hadn’t heard him come up. Pete looked him up and down, taking in his Stanford hoodie, army jacket, and ripped jeans. Dude didn’t look like he belonged here; clothes were too nice, too clean. He shrugged in response.

The man came closer. He kept his space, a couple feet to Pete’s left, and mirrored him - hands in his jean pockets, arms pressed to his sides, shoulders hunched, and facing the tracks. Pete watched him out of the corner of his eye before glancing at his watch. Four minutes.

“Always liked it here,” the man said. He was still looking at the tracks. Or maybe the little hill across from them. “It was away from everyone without being away, you know? And...I could think about leavin’.”

Pete said nothing. He swallowed again, his throat dry and eyes suddenly itchy. He rubbed at them, tears collecting and sliding down his worn cheeks. Damn cold weather.

“Your mama loves you.”

“What?”

Pete looked at the man. The guy’s eyes were on him, large eyebrows furrowed in concern. Why did he care? He didn’t know him.

“Your mama,” the man repeated, “she loves you. She’s tired, but she loves you. Mamas are like that. They get tired - workin’, cleanin’, takin’ care of their babies - but they don’t stop lovin’ their kids.”

“She’s got my brother. She’s fine.” Pete had no idea why he was telling him this. He let out a shaky breath and checked his watch. Three minutes and thirty seconds. The pebbles on the tracks started to shake. He took another breath and started forward. Then hesitated. He swayed for a moment.

“Yeah, she does.” The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t reached out to stop him. “She has - what’s his name? Chad? Thad? -”

“Tad.” He didn’t ask how he knew.

The man nodded. “She has Tad but she also has you. Her babies. Probably sees you as a set. Salt and pepper shakers. Corn and - and - shit, I dunno, what goes with corn? Peas?” He shook his head. “Whatever. Your her boys, her boy.” Pete looked up at him. The man reached out and gently, slowly, put his hand on Pete’s shoulder. There was a loud noise to their right. Neither moved. “Go home and talk to her. Give your mama a hug. Betcha she’s sittin’ there in her chair, cryin’ and wonderin’ where her boy is.”

Pete stared for a moment. The pebbles rattled violently below; a loud horn sounded. It vibrated in his bones. He shifted...and nodded. Pete turned away from the tacks and made his way up the hill.

He should have said something. Thank you? He glanced back, wondering what he could possibly say. The man was gone. A small smile curled his mouth and he kept walking up the hill.

***

A lot could happen in two years. Graduation, a new job, new relationship, the ending of a relationship - the possibilities were endless. For Ryan Pollick, the last two years felt endless.

He wasn’t sure what drove him to come back to the train tracks. If he had been smart, he would have stayed away. The cops didn’t trace anything to him. They probably could have if they wanted to. But no one cares about mentally ill guys, regardless of how friendly they seemed. Ryan scowled. Friendly. That was one word.

He pulled up to the hill next to the tracks. Nothing had changed. Little fence was still there, a sorry attempt to keep people away from the tracks. Lot of good that did. Teenagers and homeless fucks alike were hopping over that thing, the teenagers for the thrill, the homeless for...who the fuck cared? The only new thing - Ryan sneered - was a little white cross next to the fence. RIP Torry Wright.

Anger, red, burst in Ryan. Fucking Torry Wright. He shut off the engine and got out. For a moment, he just stared at the sign. Then, he kicked. The cross fell over - it wasn’t very deep in the ground - and he kicked again and again. It didn’t break, but now the pretty white thing was covered in dirt, gross, just like the man it honored.

Ryan snorted and looked down the hill. It was dark, and he couldn’t see much. He had thought about coming here in the day, but the dark feeling had swelled up inside and he decided to wait until night. It was difficult to explain the dark feeling. Many would have attributed it to guilt; he knew his wife, Emily, would have done so. But that wasn’t it. It was...fear. Cold and dark. It pierced his bones and mind, caused his teeth to rattle. The fear of being caught and losing what little he had gained in these last two years.

His sneer deepened, and he climbed over the fence. He walked down the hill, hands in his suit pockets, before stopping a few yards from the pebbles, the tracks.

He remembered everything. How video of him at the library, being talked to like some idiot by that fucker, went viral. How people saw him as some antagonistic racist - him, racist! - messing with some idiot homeless guy. People scouted him out, listened to that audio. If there was one regret he had, it was stating his name and place of work. Those viral videos should have taught him better. SJWs would hunt you down if you so much as looked at a black dude; didn’t need to give them a hand.

Ryan remembered coming into the office after the meeting. James Richmond and Carrie Dean Kaymuck Richmond themselves had called him into their office. He had been elated, thinking about his Emily and their baby girl. He had been certain he was getting a promotion - he had done so well on the Himmolt case - hell, he had done fucking supreme on every case, every client given to him. Instead, he was met with fury. Cold and hot. Two sides of the same emotion, emitting from the husband and wife owners, as they showed his the viral video. How he had been nicknamed Line-cutting Larry. Carrie Dean’s eyes burned as she told him to pack his things. Ryan had turned to James, and that fucker just stared, eyes cold.

He had done what they asked. He grabbed his shit and went to another law firm. And another. And another. Each and everyone of them denied him, pointing at that goddamn video. He had graduated top of his class at Stanford, and he couldn’t get a job in the city. If it hadn’t been for Stephen Pollick giving his only son a job at his tech company...Ryan didn’t like to think about it. He glared at the tracks.

There was not an ounce of regret in him. Not when he shoved that nigger. Not now. And there would never be regret. He ran his hand through his hair. He had no idea why he came here. To show off? He smirked. Two years and he was finally back where he belonged. It may not have been Richmond and Kaymuck, but it was a firm, nonetheless. He had another girl; three beautiful girls - Emily, Cassia, and Violet. He was still in the backroom, but soon, soon he would be out in front, publically getting people off.

Ryan laughed a little. Raking in the money while that fuck who ruined his life was dead. Smushed. Mashed. He laughed harder.

“What’s so funny?”

Ryan grinned and looked. A tall black man stood off to the side of him. He hadn’t heard him approach. Ryan looked at the lights framing the tracks, then back at the man. He looked familiar; it felt like a senior looking through the freshmen section of the yearbook. Ryan pointed to the man’s hoodie. “What year?” he asked.

The man didn’t respond. He took a step closer, and Ryan’s smile fell. There was something off about him.

“Why you here?” the man asked.

Ryan stared before shrugging, his back straightening and jaw tightening. He shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t make conversation with some dude, let alone a black dude you meet at the tracks.

“Two years.”

It was wrong, off. Something changed. Ryan stiffened, not out of superiority but out of that dark feeling quickly seeping into his body like an oil slick.

The man stared at Ryan, eyes burning brightly. “Two years ago, Bernard Torrance Wright Junior decided to take his brother-in-law up on his offer, get a job. He never even made it home.”

“No, he didn’t.” That wasn’t incriminating. Ryan knew the law. It was just a fact. Wright didn’t make it home.

“He had a family. Sister, brother-in-law, two great nieces and nephews.” The man held up two fingers. “One of each.”

“It was sad.”

“Not to you, you shit fuck.”

The dark feeling started to gnaw at Ryan. Get away - get away. He started to leave, when the man pushed him in the chest. Ryan stumbled backwards. The pebbles were starting to shake. A horn blazed in the distance. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck -

The man stood in front of him.

“Listen,” Ryan started. “I - I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about -”

“Yes you do,” the man said quietly. It was getting harder to hear him. The man straightened. He shimmered. There was no other word for it. His body shimmered and gleamed like some gossamer fabric had been in front of him. His youthful face faded away into something older, worn. A gray and black beard framing deep laugh lines. A dusty green beanie on a graying hair. His legs - oh, Jesus - his legs vanished. At his pelvis was a mass of intestines, hanging out of his body, dripping something, like a leaky faucet.

Ryan looked up in horror. The man’s face was set.

“Oh fuck -”

“Fuck you, you shit fuck!”

The man shoved him and Ryan screamed. The train came, loud, not stopping. The pebbles bounced, jittered. He watched. Ryan was there, and then he wasn’t, caught under the wheels of the train. There was a thump, but nothing else. The horn’s screams continued on, man-made screams muffaling man-made screams. He closed his eyes. A weight lifted itself off his shoulders.

“What do you think happens now?”

Torry opened his eyes. There was a man in a nice black suit. Man in Black. It looked a little too tight on him, too modern. Torry’s body shimmered, but the man held up a hand.

“Don’t change on my account,” he said. Torry froze, his body remaining as it had been when he died.

“You ain’t scared.”

“Not really.” The man came closer. “I’ve been watching you. You’re a good man, Bernard.”

“I don’t know you.” It sounded childish coming from his mouth. The train was still going by.

The man smiled. “Carleton Ruscoe,” he said. “I’m a paranormal investigator.”

“Carlton Bank’s doin’ ‘Ghost Hunters’, now?”

His smile widened. “You know your pop culture references, don’t you?” Torry shrugged. Carleton’s face sombered. “You still didn’t answer my question. What happens now? You’ve fulfilled your purpose of staying here.” He gestured to the train. “Where do you go?”

Carleton wasn’t wearing any paranormal gear. Maybe things had changed. Two years is a long time. Surprisingly longer once you’re dead and don’t have a calendar. They should fix that. Calendars for ghosts. Maybe Steve Jobs can make a phone for ghosts. Dead obviously can’t read Living folks’ calendars or there’d be a lot few hauntings.

Torry watched the train for a moment. “Guess I go up now,” he finally said.

“Go up where?”

Was this man dumb? Torry pulled a face. “Up. Heaven. Chill with my bro Jesus over a cold one.”

“You think He’ll let you up?”

Torry’s eyes widened. He had to let him up, right? He stared at Carleton. “Everybody told me God lets good people into Heaven. Believers get a really special place, but all good people go to Heaven. Like dogs but only some people.”

Carleton nodded. “What makes you a good person?” He pointed to the tracks. The train finally passed by. There was a lump where Ryan had been standing, unidentifiable as anything remotely human. Maybe a microscope or some CSI detectives could see a person, but most would see...gunk. Did he look like that? Torry glanced down at his body. Just his legs. He didn’t remember his legs, but they must have looked like a squashed bug on a windshield.

“I been helpin’ people,” he said. He looked at the other man. The man stared back, his lips quirked. “I’ve been helping.”

“One bad deed overwhelms them all. It’s true that you’ve saved fifty, maybe a hundred lives. But you have also taken a life. Not out of mercy, but out of vengeance.” He paused. Torry’s eyes widened impossibly. No. No. This man - he doesn’t know God. He doesn’t know the Bible. The Bible says - “The fifth commandment: Thou shalt not kill.”

Torry started to rock back and forth, his intestines swinging. His breathing was ragged. “No. No you wrong. Thou shalt not murder. That’s - that’s what it says. Killin’ is takin’ an innocent, but murder is takin’ - takin’ a not-innocent.”

“Do you really think that matters to God?” Carleton took a step closer. “We interpret His commands however we want them, but we don’t really know what He meant...what He means. The church says one thing - He could have very well meant something a little different.” Carleton looked at the tracks. Torry couldn’t look. He couldn’t. He was good. He had been good. Life and death. He had to go up. Why wasn’t he going up? “And, to be quite frank, Bernard...how do you know this man was not innocent? He pushed you, yes, and for that he will suffer. But he was also a devoted father and husband. A loyal son. Attended church every week. God...God would judge him. That’s His role. And you did it for Him.”

He couldn’t. No. No. That’s not what - God judges, He is the Judge. But Torry did the judging. He tried him - he had been the court, the jury, judge, and executer. No defence. God had a defence attorney - He looked at everything, the whole of someone’s life. He was Judge - and Torry...Torry...

Carleton reached into his pocket. “Why do you think you’re still here?”

Torry screamed. He grabbed onto his beanie and pulled. No. No. No. No.

“I’m sorry, Bernard.”

Torry bent over, still screaming. Carleton threw something at him, small and square. It hit him in the head. He couldn’t think. He...he was good. He was...There was a sucking noise and then nothing. Silence.

Carleton strode over to the box and picked it up. He put it in his pocket and, with one last look at Ryan’s remains, walked up the hill.

2001 13 GHOSTS VS 2018 13 GHOSTS

The Torso: a man missing his limbs; could be a result of how he died or a birth defect.

Jimmy “The Gambler” Gambino loved to make bets. He had been making them since he was a child. Unfortunately, his last bet would prove deadly. He gambled against the wrong man, and as a result, he was chopped up, wrapped in cellophane, and thrown into the ocean. He is still looking for his head.

Bernard Torrance “Torry” Wright was a homeless man with schizophrenia. He was loved by many, but not all. One of those men ended up taking his life, pushing Torry in front of a moving train, severing his body in half. Unlike Jimmy, Torry was a relatively benevolent ghost, a gentle giant in life and death.

Taurus, the Bull: With the First Born Son being Aires, The Torso would align with the zodiac Taurus, the bull. Torry was a large man, built like a bull, according to his mom.

#writeober #13ghostsrewrite #13 ghosts rewrite #tw: racism #tw: racial slur #tw: attempted suicide #tw: graphic content #tw: death #tw: swearing

0 notes