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Second Draft: Inside Out (2008)

 “Good evening, Mr. Bowker,” Mrs. Richardson coos with her shaky, elderly voice.  The New Orleans’ night air is always so thick with magnolias and Cajun spices.  The sweet, piquant aroma touches deep within, like a lover.  Who could stay in on such a lovely night?

“Good evening, Mrs. Richardson.”  Her hand tastes of Ivory soap and Aspricreme.  She bows and lowers her eyes as a proper lady should.  Despite her age, Mrs. Richardson remembers how society behaves.  The street light, painting my neighborhood into a sepia picture, does her justice.

Her granddaughter, on the other hand, is the painted jezebel.  She rolls eyes and snaps her gum like a common harlot.  I stare with a belly-full of brimstone.  Her lady business smells of all the men she’s begged.  I could fix that.

“Nice evening.  Are you on your way home?”

“Yes.  Brittani was kind enough to escort me for some ice cream.”  With her age-spotted hands, Mrs. Richardson clutches her cracking, patent-leather purse.  She stares at small troupe of Negro youth on the other side of the street.  I nod toward their leader – a thick muscled, thick brained clod who keeps the rest in line with his broad fists.  He nods back.  We know what the other to be and give wide birth.


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