Jillian Chantal

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt Stoop. I am still working on my ghost story.

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Disappointed at her lack of progress, Lu realized she hadn’t eaten much all day. She stood to see what she could pull together from what she had in the fridge. It was past time for a trip to the grocery store.

She stared in the refrigerator. Nothing spoke to her. She shut the door and slid her shoes by the back door on. “Come on if you want to ride with me to Taco Bell, Aneto.” Lu jangled the keys as she headed toward the hook where Aneto’s leash hung.

A knock at the door distracted her from her task at the same moment her stomach growled its displeasure at her.

When Lu opened the door, she was surprised to see Detective Godfrey on her front stoop. “I had no idea it was you. Your cop knock is what usually alerts me to your presence. Why so gentle this time?”

“Ha-ha. Very funny. We usually only use that banging sound when we’re rousting a suspect.”

She held her hand to her heart. “Surely this isn’t a social call?” She had no illusions about their relationship—such as it was—but found herself tamping down that little spark of hope that rose in her heart. Stop it. He’s been a jerk. Don’t think he’s attractive.

He looked at the keys in her hand. “Going somewhere?”

“I’m starving. Was going to pop up to Taco Bell for some soft tacos.”

“That’s not real food.”

“It’ll do in a pinch.”

“I’d like some help if you have some time.” He leaned his shoulder against the wall and stared at her.

“Wow, Detective, you’re asking me for help? The woman you’d have gladly arrested or committed just a day or so ago?”

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the work prompt running. This is still my story with the heroine who sees ghosts. This scene is her helping with the search for a missing child.

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Lu wished the woman would stop talking. It wasn’t helping her concentrate on the search. It was as if the lady was just out there so she could brag about being part of it. Lu had seen a number of people like that over the years.

Trying to ignore the woman as she prattled on, Lu was a bit surprised to hear someone whispering in her ear. “I need help. Can you help me?”

Glancing around, she noticed a man to her left. He was right next to her. Soaking wet. Dressed in jeans, running shoes and T-shirt.

She couldn’t very well say anything to him so she tried to ignore his presence.

“I can tell that you see me. Don’t act lie you can’t. Please.”

The angst in his voice let her know he was one of the people she needed to help. But how to say something without the jabber jaws lady wanting to know who she was talking to?

She shook her head at the man, hoping he understood she meant he should wait.

He didn’t. “Why are you shaking your head? If you’re trying to pretend not to see me, shaking your head tells me you do.”

The group they were in reached the end of the field they were searching as they approached the water.

“Where do we go from here?” The talkative woman called to their team leader.”

“We’ll move over a few feet and go back the other way.”

Lu took the moment of distraction and turned to the wet man. She pointed to an area that had already been searched, hoping he’d follow her.

“Where are you going?” Talkative lady asked Lu.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to take my dog back to the car. He’s tired.”

“Doesn’t look tired to me. He looks like he’s having a good time.”

Lord, will the woman just shut her mouth for like two seconds?

“Nevertheless, I think I can search better without him.”

“Shouldn’t have brought him then.” The woman sniffed.

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt sticky. I am still sharing my ghost story.

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Lu tried to shake her head, but it hurt too much. And now that she could focus just a little more she realized her left arm was hurting.  She reached over to investigate and touched something sticky.

“Don’t mess with it. You have a gash in your arm where it scraped when you fell. There’s an ambulance on the way,” Amanda said.

“No ambulance. I’m fine. Fine.” But Lu knew possible traumatic brain injury was the real issue. Her arm could be stitched, but her time in the Army Nursing Corp working with battle injured soldiers told her something was truly wrong. Why would I be seeing Thomas Jefferson if I’m all right? And all those nonsolid people flitting about?

Hope soared in her chest as she had a thought.  “Re-enactors?”

“I should say not. I’m Andrew Jackson.” The man in the hat sneered. “Really. Just because I can move from Plaza Ferdinand where my statue sits is not a reason to think I am some person in fancy dress. I was the first governor of this territory and you should show me some respect.”

“There are no re-enactors here, Miss.” A man in a festival T-shirt placed a hand on her uninjured arm as she struggled to sit up. “Please stay down. We don’t know what injuries you sustained. It’s best to wait for the ambulance.”

Amanda patted her hand again.  “Be still. The ambulance will be here soon.”

The last thing Lula Mae wanted to do was go to a hospital. She loved nursing but she hated being a patient. “I’ll be fine. I merely knocked the wind out of myself.”

“Even if that’s all it is, you still need stitches in that arm.” Amanda sat back on her heels. “And I know what you’re going to say. No, you can’t suture them yourself.”

“But you know I actually can.”

This week’s word prompt for the writers of Tuesday Tales is hard. I found three uses of it in the snippet I am sharing- goes to prove these aren’t edited as I will def be getting rid of one or two of them…LOL – I am still working in my ghost story.

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Jackson insisted on accompanying Lu back to her house. She didn’t really want to have an escort, but he was nothing if not a gentleman. One from a different era. Lu couldn’t bear to hurt his feelings so she allowed him to walk back toward her place with her and Aneto.

As they passed the theater, he looked up and waved at the man in the upper window with the rope around his neck. “That up there is Hosea Poole. Hanged for stealing. Poor man. He says he was innocent.” Jackson shook his head. “Not sure he told the truth there, but hanging is a hard way to die so I feel sorry for him either way.”

Lu didn’t have anything to say to that. Far be it from her to question the ethics of a spirit.

When they passed the old Christ Church, the three priests from the day before greeted Jackson. He smiled at them and kept walking. “Nice men. They worked really hard to save lives during one of the yellow fever epidemics. They all eventually succumbed to the disease themselves. They’re buried there and still look out for the souls on my side of the veil as well as pray for those who use the church now. Weddings are their particular favorites. They like to pray for the bride and groom as well as family and friends. It is nice for them to be able to continue their calling.”

“But if there’s a heaven, why aren’t they there? Don’t priests work hard to get their just rewards?”

“Oh, how little you understand about how the world—and all its miracles—works.”

He was right. She didn’t understand at all. Why would priests who saw heaven as the ultimate reward stick around in poky old Pensacola when glory was waiting beyond the pearly gates? “I guess I don’t understand. Can you enlighten me?”

“No. I think it best you watch and learn yourself. Now that you have been awakened to all the miracles around you, it will be your new occupation to pay close attention. See what lessons you can learn from the spirits who occupy both your realm and the eternal.” He swept his hat off and bowed. “And now, I must away. New Orleans is calling to me and I should obey her siren call.” He grinned. “Besides, I have an engagement with Jean and Pierre Lafitte. They will be expecting me in due course.”

Happy Tuesday Tales day. This week, we are writing to the word prompt red. This is my ghost story. I am using some real people buried in my hometown as some of the characters. Dorothy Walton was married to a signer of the Declaration of Independence, George Walton and she moved here when he passed away. Her son was actually on staff for Andrew Jackson when he was governor of the territory here.

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The two EMTs raced over with a stretcher. She knew one of them and he grimaced as he recognized her. “What the hell happened to you, Lu?”

“Missed a step. Luckily, the ground stopped my fall.”

“Deflecting as usual, I see.” He turned to his partner. “She’s the charge nurse on the orthopedic floor. Makes those poor souls who work under her march to her tune like they’re in the military.”

“I was in the army you know.” She glanced at his companion. “If he worked on shift for me, he’d already be in trouble for not providing timely patient care.” Lu smiled to take the sting out of her words. She knew her reputation as a taskmaster but in a war zone, seconds could be minutes and after serving her twenty years, it was hard to turn off the learned discipline.

Andrew Jackson let out a bark of laughter. “Women in the army? Nonsense.”

A woman in a long calico skirt and red and white collared blouse who Lu presumed wasn’t real since she’d walked right through the EMT Lu didn’t know, said, “Mr. Jackson, a lot of things have changed over the years. Even I am aware women serve in army units now.”

“It does not make it proper. Not at all. In my day we had camp followers, but nothing ever prepared me for such a thing to be acceptable.”

Their discussion continued as Lu was loaded on the gurney.

The woman let out a deep sigh. “While I agree it is difficult to believe women should be in the army, I was a prisoner of war myself, you know.”

Jackson shook his head. “Yes, yes, Dorothy. We all know. You were taken to the West Indies. You survived that and never let any of us forget it. And we are also not allowed to forget your husband signed the Declaration of Independence.”

“Why do we always have this discussion? You should leave it alone. It makes you appear jealous of my George.”

“I am not jealous of George Walton. Remember, I was president of the United States.”

The gurney was moving now toward the edge of the curb where the ambulance was parked on Government Street.

The writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt fabric this week. This is still my story where the heroine can communicate with deceased people. Unedited!

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. She took her leave and closed the door behind her, stepping right in front of a man covered in blood and with ripped clothes. He also had on shredded jeans with road rash peeking through the fabric.

This man she remembered. He’d driven his motorcycle recklessly and went over the side of interstate I-110 near the Bayfront Auditorium. He’d clung to life for a few days, but eventually passed away from his injuries.

“You work here, right?” He asked.

She couldn’t pretend not to see this one. He was right in her face. “Yes, I do. I’m the charge nurse. I can’t talk here. Come to my office.”

Not taking no for an answer, she turned and strode down the hallway to her office.

As soon as she shut the door, he asked through it and sat in the chair in front of her desk. “I need your help. I want my mother to know how much I loved her. She always worried about me on my motorcycle and I was an idiot, racing through traffic and even popping wheelies on the interstate. As soon as I flew over the side of the interstate, before I even landed on the concrete below, I knew it was going to break her heart. She sat by my bed for days here until I died. She never once said she told me so and she never once cried—at least not in front of me. She kept positive and talked to me even though everyone said I couldn’t hear her. I could.”

“What do you need me to do?” Lu didn’t mind listening to his request and would assist him if there was any way she could.

“Go and see her. I want her to know I regret my behavior and that I should have listened to her.”

“I’m not sure that will help her. After all, she lost a son. Knowing he now knows she was right to worry about him, it won’t bring you back.”

“No, it won’t, but part of what I want you to do is talk to my brother as well. He’s worse than I was. Reckless and disrespectful to other drivers. He’s going to end up like me if he doesn’t slow down. I want you to talk to him too. I don’t want to see him brought in here like I was. I don’t want him to die.”

She picked up her pen and pulled a legal pad toward her. “All right. I’ll do it, but I’m going to need some details. Things only they would know. I’ve found the only way I can get people to listen when I have messages from their deceased loved ones is to have information only they would know. That I couldn’t have access to. What’s something I can use?”