Although she’s on the other side of the country attending the StokerCon horror convention, Sarah Faxon didn’t leave us hanging as we waited for her Friday Flash Fiction prompt. This week it was:
The act of singing summons.
Your character misses breakfast at their convention.
In my usual fashion, I combined both. However, I fudged a bit and changed singing to playing music. Let me know what you think. And yes, the story is partly based on my own experience.
SECOND LINE
He chose a small bed and breakfast down the street from the hotel. There were still two chapters left until he finished writing this book, and distractions are the enemies of writers. And there’s no bigger distraction than the after-hours bar scene at a writer’s convention.
It didn’t help that this year’s chosen location was the capitol of distractions--New Orleans.
The French Quarter Masionettes, a B&B fashioned from an 1800s two-story home on Chartes Street, had a wrought iron gate guarding its jungle-like quiet garden with gurgling fountain. Each guest was given their own worn brass key since the ancient butler, Jesse, went home at dusk every evening.
It was a setup that pleased him, evoking visions of his idol, Faulkner. Although, his laptop was a poor substitute for a portable Remington typewriter if he was going for the full experience. Still, a couple of Sazeracs at a bar down off Pirate’s Alley got him in the mood.
His watch alarm went off at 4:30 am, his usual hour for rising and getting some writing done before showering and heading back to the crowded convention noise. This morning, he was already awake. He’d never gone to sleep. Something had clicked during the night, and the words flowed as if he only dictated a movie playing in his mind.
As he closed the laptop, he stretched and rubbed his eyes. In the distance, he heard the clarion call of a trumpet. He opened his eyes and cocked an ear. Music issuing from the streets of New Orleans was not unusual. However, at this early hour, even Bourbon Street would be silent, save for the street sweepers.
The deep trill of a clarinet returned the call.
As he rose and crossed the courtyard to the iron gate, a possum hissed from a large Magnolia tree branch, weighted with fragrant white blossoms. The red/blue flames from the gas lamps on the brick wall danced in the creature’s eyes and made its sharp teeth glimmer in the pre-dawn.
Turning the brass key, he stepped out onto the moist pavement stones. Down the street, out of a swirling morning mist, he saw a line of about a dozen swaying, dancing figures, slowly moving his way. At the forefront, a dark man dressed in a white suit held a scarlet umbrella, marched beside a heavyset trumpet player. Behind him followed the clarinet player, and a skeletal man merrily tapping a base drum slung on his bony shoulders.
Their exuberant jazz filled the narrow street, ricocheting off the old brick buildings and disturbing the pigeons sleeping on the wrought iron balconies. Yet, no lights turned on in any windows. Nobody called out to knock off the racket. It was if only he was around to witness the spectacle.
He’d heard of Second Line parades, the procession of mourners that moved from the graveyard to a reception party to honor the deceased. Unlike the slow dirge that led the casket to the burial, this parade celebrated the life of the one just laid to rest. However, they never took place at this hour, did they?
He watched from the sidewalk as they passed, none of the white clad mourners paying him any attention. The clinging mist drifted around their legs, making it look like they were moving through water. Their feet making no sound, only the reverberating music marking their passing, drifting by, leaving the hint of night-blooming jasmine in the air.
An ebony-skinned woman in an ivory knee length dress, stopped and turned to him. The silver mist paused with her. She smiled, her ruby painted lips parting to reveal brilliantly white teeth, canines far too long.
A soft buzzing filled his mind, and a cool breeze caressed his cheek. She raised a hand, her long index finger beckoning him to follow. Feeling a chill at his feet, he glanced down to see the mist rising like a tide up his legs.
He was glad his novel was finished. However, he knew that he would be missing the convention breakfast. A new chapter had begun.
From the description of the music to the final eerie image of the women with the dress. I loved this. I would love to know which parts were true haha.
Oohhhj, goosebumps! Loved this!