Jillian Chantal

Sorry I missed some weeks. I’m writing something totally different for me and the words that were used the last few weeks didn’t fit at all in my tale and there was no way to make it work. This week’s word is crazy and I can use that one for sure.

This story is about a slave and set in 1792. In this scene, the youngest son of the house is asking the slave, Theodora why she escaped (she was captured after one day and given lashes for it). She’s a house slave/seamstress and is working on a gown for one of his sisters.

Be sure to check out the other tales here. Mine is completely unedited so it will probably change at some point.

“Please tell me. I truly am baffled. Why you’d go. You have food, clothing and a roof over your head. Yet you risked it for a life as a fugitive. Why?”

The angst in his voice was what decided her to answer truthfully. She leaned forward with her elbows propped on her knees. “To answer one part of your question, I didn’t know I’d receive lashes if I was caught.” When he opened his mouth to speak, she held her right hand up to silence him. “Wait. You need to know this part.”

He nodded and remained silent with an eager expression on his face.

“While I had seen and heard the men who work the plantation being lashed, I was the first woman to my knowledge.”

His eyes widened. “Really? So you had no inkling that would happen?”

“None.”

“All right, so you didn’t realize your punishment would be so severe, but I still don’t know why you left. I want to understand.”

“I left because I’m not free.”

“But all your needs are tended to.”

Theodora laughed. A short, bitter sound even to her own ears. “As do you. But the difference is, you have the freedom to go into town to the shops, to attend horse races, to travel wherever you want to go with no fears of being beaten to a bloody mess if you choose to go. You have the freedom to not answer questions if you don’t want to and most importantly, you have the right to say no. I don’t have any of those things. The people who own me and my kind are the ones who make all the decisions. Down to even what I can eat. So, yes, my needs are tended to, but if I wanted to eat a beef loin steak instead of gruel, I don’t have the chance to make that choice.”

A shadow passed across his eyes. She couldn’t tell if it was pity or understanding, but she thought for a moment—perhaps—that he understood.

“Thank you for explaining. I think I see better now.”

She gave him a sad smile. “And I thank you for saying thank you. Those words are never spoken to me unless by another of my kind. For you see, we’re politer to each other than your finely tutored gentlemen ever were or will be.”

He stood. “I will try to behave in a kinder manner. For I now see more than I did before coming in here this afternoon.”

When he was gone, Theodora thought back over the conversation. She was surprised at the questions he asked, but more stunned that he actually appeared to listen and take heed of her words.

Only time would tell if what they discussed had a true impact on him. She hoped so but wasn’t optimistic as he was of the class of people who didn’t normally care about her kind other than to get from them what they wanted.

She rose from her seat to make her way to the privy since she hadn’t had a break all day.

Before she could get to the door, Miss Emily came dashing in, with her headpiece in her hand and her hair in disarray. “You must come now. Mother is going crazy.”

The Tuesday Tales word of the week is tragic. My alter-ego and I have a new Christmas anthology out this week and am sharing a bit from one of the stories in it. This is from The Magic of Fruitcake. The heroine is an actress and has befriended a homeless lady on the streets of New York. The heroine has landed an important movie role and finds herself falling for the director.

Check out the other tales here. 

“I’ll call you as soon as I’m out of the meeting with the production team,” Hans said. “Go inside and treat yourself to the vitamin C and zinc. We want you well enough to do a press conference in a few days once everything is approved.” He touched her lightly on the cheek. “We don’t want any red noses.”

She laughed. “I do have some stage makeup. It can hide any number of flaws.”

“You’re flawless already,” Hans said. He appeared to realize what he said and added, “And we want to make sure if you do get sick from being out in the weather that you’ll still look healthy for the press conference.”

Marla smiled. “Thanks for lunch and an interesting day.” She turned to Abigail and Gus. “It was nice to meet you, Abigail, and I wish you and Gus all the best.”

“We’ll see each other again. I’m sure of it,” Abigail said.

When Marla was on the sidewalk, the car pulled away. Marla had mixed emotions. She wanted to be alone but she already missed Hans. She was in trouble and she knew it. There was no way she should be having feelings for the man who was going to be her boss. But she did.

Instead of going inside and having the pity party she wanted to give to herself, she decided to see if she could find Miss Jane. Suddenly, the thought of her empty apartment made her want to not be in there by herself. Besides, she still owed Miss Jane her thanks for the fruitcake.

She walked down the street toward Miss Jane’s usual spot. As she went, she wished she had returned to her apartment long enough to get her wool beanie. The fedora wasn’t warm at all.

Miss Jane wasn’t in her regular alley nor was she at the coffee shop. Marla really was getting worried now. Had her friend frozen to death somewhere during the snow storm or was she holed up somewhere warm and cozy? Marla hoped it was the second option, but she wasn’t at all sure that would be true. The city’s homeless problem was tragic and epidemic. She’d tried many times to get Miss Jane to tell her where she was from and where her family lived.

Miss Jane would always smile coyly and say she and her husband have a lot of work to do the last part of the year. Marla had never seen a husband and wasn’t sure he even existed but Miss Jane was always referring to him.

The older woman didn’t explain the kind of work she and her husband did either. It was decidedly odd. She didn’t really seem homeless as she was always tidy and never smelled bad but the truth was, she was always on the street since she’d appeared a couple of months ago.

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to picture prompts. Each post is limited to 300 words. I wrote a little Halloween tale. It was hard to limit it to 300 words, but I did it. I love Halloween!!

Check out the other photos and tales here.

The five-gabled roof of the two story abandoned mansion loomed in the darkness cast by the shadows of the leafless, yet large, oak trees.

Marguerite glanced at her friend Jane. “I don’t want to. This place creeps me out.”

“Don’t be scared. I told you, it’s fine. We both need homecoming dance dresses. There’s a closet full of them up there. We can borrow one each and bring them right back.”

Taking a deep breath, Marguerite shook her head. “It’s illegal to go in and steal.”

“We’re not stealing. We’re borrowing.” Jane stepped on the porch and grabbed the door knob.

Once inside, she beckoned to Marguerite. “Come on. It’ll just be a second.”

Marguerite followed. The house was even creepier inside. The furniture left behind made weird shadows on the wall. It seemed as if the house itself was alive and they were in the lungs. Inhale, exhale.

Wanting to flee, but compelled to follow her friend, Marguerite kept going, past the creak of the stairs and the half-broken balustrade.

In a bedroom at the end of the hall, Jane stood in front of a closet of beautiful dresses. “See? Like I said. Doug and I found them when we sneaked in. Pick one.”

Feeling forced to go along, Marguerite ran her hand along the side of a pale blue one. “I like this.”

Jane pulled a salmon pink one out for herself. “Then let’s go. They’re both the right size.”

As they left the room, a loud crash startled Marguerite. She darted a glance over her shoulder and  panicked. Shoving Jane aside, she ran for the stairs.

“What’s happening?” Jane cried out.

The last Marguerite saw of her friend, Jane was being pursued down the street by a group of formal gowns apparently bent on revenge.