Brown short story and photography by novelist Doug M. Brooks!
Brown a short story The Introduction
Real City—2012 population approximately 136,000 and growing… risen from the span of a decade population 48,611 citizens with an unemployment rate that of 4.6 %. The increase in population was due to a network explosion in the arts and entertainment industry and ongoing battle of retired “former” Ku-Klux-Klansman owned businesses networked into real estate, special metals, law enforcement, legal representation, human resources of large corporations, restaurants and family store fronts.
The explosion of resistance erupted from multicultural restaurants, barbershops, salon and spas networking with local artist in advertisement ventures. Local singers, dancers, theatre troupes, networked with poetry groups and writers. Promoters sought out and worked with event planning agencies. Playwrights, columnists, novelist eventually networked with online markets and independent publishing houses that created new money platforms. Magazines flourished, and black-multi-cultural radio stations developed recycling avenues for more advertisers. Regional and national contractors, architects and real estate developers followed the trend leading to Real city. A ground level town was transformed into a skyscraping city that could be seen for miles from the interstate highways and railways.
The Ohio River sang with a low pitch; a few barges and old weathered and unattractive concrete flood walls became an advertiser’s open menu to a city of innovative entrepreneurs. Grafitti artists turned became employed law bidding citizens instead of nuisances. Even a once failed attempt at semi pro-sports suddenly became prosperous with boxing promotions, arena football and X-games in the under used real estate once known as Ritter Park. Real city was a popular home for motor-sports, skating championships with a state-of-the-art skating facility that branched into a multi-purpose X-game arena accommodating bikes, roller blades and skateboards.
The ever-growing Carter G. University and King’s memorial Hospital had been exposed to the national press over disputes that railed out of a small community regarding low income housing and illegal zoning laws that caused several blue collar and middle class families to loose their homes. The tensions arose after an African American lawyer and city council member were found lynched after being involved in public protests in the demolition and of a community center and housing project centered right off the interstate where most of the tourism flowed. Blair St. Clair a reporter in Louisville KY was hired by VOICE magazine an acronym for Vibes of inner city echoes, a multi-cultural magazine that spotlighted local entrepreneurs and students in the arts and entertainment industry.
Blair St. Clair was a former resident of Real City back in 2006 where he struggled to find work at any newspaper or magazine that would publish his columns due to the blunt style and controversial subject matter. He worked odd jobs to make ends meet, but failed to maintain the cost of renting his one bedroom apartment under the wage he was being paid. Forced to seek employment else where, he established himself as a columnist with a treasure chest on insight and viable research skills. Publishing credits and reputation proceeding him, he was all too eager to return to the highly publicized and renovated Real City. It was a gentle October afternoon 2012 when he arrived within Real City’s city limits and crossing the city was not at all visible before crossing from Burlington, OH on to the Carter G. Woodson Bridge. Radiant hues of regal reds, liberating yellows and optic popping oranges adorn autumn kissed trees and served as a sort of read carpet to newly built skyscrapers that gave heaven a blissful facelift of reflection and lights eager for a dark night.
The explosion of resistance erupted from multicultural restaurants, barbershops, salon and spas networking with local artist in advertisement ventures. Local singers, dancers, theatre troupes, networked with poetry groups and writers. Promoters sought out and worked with event planning agencies. Playwrights, columnists, novelist eventually networked with online markets and independent publishing houses that created new money platforms. Magazines flourished, and black-multi-cultural radio stations developed recycling avenues for more advertisers. Regional and national contractors, architects and real estate developers followed the trend leading to Real city. A ground level town was transformed into a skyscraping city that could be seen for miles from the interstate highways and railways.
The Ohio River sang with a low pitch; a few barges and old weathered and unattractive concrete flood walls became an advertiser’s open menu to a city of innovative entrepreneurs. Grafitti artists turned became employed law bidding citizens instead of nuisances. Even a once failed attempt at semi pro-sports suddenly became prosperous with boxing promotions, arena football and X-games in the under used real estate once known as Ritter Park. Real city was a popular home for motor-sports, skating championships with a state-of-the-art skating facility that branched into a multi-purpose X-game arena accommodating bikes, roller blades and skateboards.
The ever-growing Carter G. University and King’s memorial Hospital had been exposed to the national press over disputes that railed out of a small community regarding low income housing and illegal zoning laws that caused several blue collar and middle class families to loose their homes. The tensions arose after an African American lawyer and city council member were found lynched after being involved in public protests in the demolition and of a community center and housing project centered right off the interstate where most of the tourism flowed. Blair St. Clair a reporter in Louisville KY was hired by VOICE magazine an acronym for Vibes of inner city echoes, a multi-cultural magazine that spotlighted local entrepreneurs and students in the arts and entertainment industry.
Blair St. Clair was a former resident of Real City back in 2006 where he struggled to find work at any newspaper or magazine that would publish his columns due to the blunt style and controversial subject matter. He worked odd jobs to make ends meet, but failed to maintain the cost of renting his one bedroom apartment under the wage he was being paid. Forced to seek employment else where, he established himself as a columnist with a treasure chest on insight and viable research skills. Publishing credits and reputation proceeding him, he was all too eager to return to the highly publicized and renovated Real City. It was a gentle October afternoon 2012 when he arrived within Real City’s city limits and crossing the city was not at all visible before crossing from Burlington, OH on to the Carter G. Woodson Bridge. Radiant hues of regal reds, liberating yellows and optic popping oranges adorn autumn kissed trees and served as a sort of read carpet to newly built skyscrapers that gave heaven a blissful facelift of reflection and lights eager for a dark night.
Chapter One--Culture shock
Bose knows… Bose knows sound quality in the head bangers (headphones)… yeah, when I’m not rolling in my upgrade of a “whip” (luxury car), I have my headphones on, and my mp3 player cranked and dangling from my neck. I’m a man of rhythm I think on a rhythm and talk with a kindness to avoid all the blindness propagating the airways. Terrorist threats, government scandals and more celebrity drama to try to keep our minds occupied. I’m going on an American media fast. No internet for a week… I’m a month strong not reading the Times or a USA Today. I get most of my news feeds from my G phone (An upgraded version of the I phone with mp3, camera, 2Gig USB port, mini pc, and GPS navigational system built into one)… but I ignore the AP press articles and I focus on ear to the street information for my articles. I was hired by Dr. Devon Turner who has claimed his roots to the late Nat Turner better known as “the rebellious slave” he has wrote a very controversial epic poem called “Vicious Nigger.” The first black man that authored an infamous killer as an heroic character and at the same time antagonist to the United States of America in the time. The story line was tailored to fit the epic poem genre, however Dr. Devon Turner insisted on having the film produced in only the horror film genre.
I know the question is am I afraid of working for such a controversial figure, or am I committing career or even literal suicide? I’m never scared. I agree with the very premise of the book. The controversy brings attention to a more serious issue. The civil rights must continue to move throughout the next generation and has to be reformed for preventative measures. Dr. Devon Turner is not racist and says it often in his monologues of Nat Turner and press conferences. He openly apologizes to Caucasians on behalf of his father because as he states, “I hate a murderer as much as I hate a racist. I’m a Christian and uphold Jewish heritage as something pure. Loving your neighbor and your enemy is a far cry from shedding his blood.”
I know the question is am I afraid of working for such a controversial figure, or am I committing career or even literal suicide? I’m never scared. I agree with the very premise of the book. The controversy brings attention to a more serious issue. The civil rights must continue to move throughout the next generation and has to be reformed for preventative measures. Dr. Devon Turner is not racist and says it often in his monologues of Nat Turner and press conferences. He openly apologizes to Caucasians on behalf of his father because as he states, “I hate a murderer as much as I hate a racist. I’m a Christian and uphold Jewish heritage as something pure. Loving your neighbor and your enemy is a far cry from shedding his blood.”
When I walked in his office I was ready for the soft spoken and snicker demeanor of the Dr, but I was greeted with a… “Yeeaaaa! Come in man, check this… check this… that’s my nephew doing his thing on the football field he play for the Crash Crew football team.”
“Oh, are you watching that on your window Doc.? Yeah, these glass companies began buying into the televisions that they supplied glass to. Digital television in the early 2000’s changed when television manufacturers dropped glass companies and opted out to a cheaper manufacturer of plastic screens. Well here’s the result of a wise window company owner. That little square attachment about the size of a credit card on my window is the television and it makes any size window full-screen entertainment.”
“Man, the picture is so good that you can’t see out the window.” “Yeah, and the best thing is that all you see looking in is static.”
“Well, if I bring you this story before deadline I want this to be my bonus!”
“Speaking of that…” Dr. Turner turns off the television.
“I’m talking to you man to man, this is dangerous son! I almost don’t want to put you out there like that.”
“Hey, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. put himself out there like that.” “He had information for not only his people, but for the world.” “Our aim is not revenge it’s justice, human harmony, and awareness.”
“That’s why you’re the highest paid writer on my staff. You believe in what you’re doing.”
“Oh, are you watching that on your window Doc.? Yeah, these glass companies began buying into the televisions that they supplied glass to. Digital television in the early 2000’s changed when television manufacturers dropped glass companies and opted out to a cheaper manufacturer of plastic screens. Well here’s the result of a wise window company owner. That little square attachment about the size of a credit card on my window is the television and it makes any size window full-screen entertainment.”
“Man, the picture is so good that you can’t see out the window.” “Yeah, and the best thing is that all you see looking in is static.”
“Well, if I bring you this story before deadline I want this to be my bonus!”
“Speaking of that…” Dr. Turner turns off the television.
“I’m talking to you man to man, this is dangerous son! I almost don’t want to put you out there like that.”
“Hey, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. put himself out there like that.” “He had information for not only his people, but for the world.” “Our aim is not revenge it’s justice, human harmony, and awareness.”
“That’s why you’re the highest paid writer on my staff. You believe in what you’re doing.”
Chapter 2
Chapter Two--Lights, Stage Action...
I didn’t want Dr. Turner to cater to my every need which I’m sure would’ve been his pleasure given southern hospitality reputation that has long time been enriched in Real city residents. I needed a date, but I didn’t mind the focus that I can give to a good story line and performance when I’m by myself. The crowd is a whole lot bigger than I thought. I’m glad my cousin already had given me a back stage pass. Now I can front like I’m a big time critique since my face isn’t widely recognized here. I sort of felt bad that the Dr. Turner’s tickets went to waste so I scalped them out front before I went in. Morally he would frown on it, but my mother would frown on me wasting hard earned money even more.
“Excuse me sir…”
I was wading the crowd of actors, stagehands and producers, but someone felt the need to say excuse me…
“Excuse me sir…”
I wasn’t ready I looked into her eyes and saw something extra.
“Pardon me Ms.?”
“Can I see your pass!”
“Excuse me,” I flashed it arrogantly. I tried to turn around and put my nose in the air, but she looked at me as if something… extra was in my eyes too.
“I’m sorry can I help you find a seat the show is about to start.”
“My name is Blair St. Clair… I write for VOICE magazine and I want to sit with somebody that can give me a brief synopsis on the play before the curtains part.”
“Nice to meet you Blair. Your name rhymes… cool beanz! …and I know the play, I wrote it.” She smiled big and I almost cried she was so fine.
“Delightful! Lead the way…”
“Brown, my name is Brown.”
“Nice to meet you Ms. Brown.”
“No, I’m Ms. Jones. My first name is Brown.”
“Wow, that’s rare. It’s a beautiful first name.”
“You must be an artist because only an artist could appreciate my first name.” Laughing, “I got made fun of in school.”
“Well, I won’t make fun of your name, but I’ll make fun of your play if it sucks.” I smiled at her and it wasn’t a fake smile.
The front row seats were accommodating and I tried to pay attention to her synopsis, but she radiated beauty.
“I wrote this play in 2013 when I was a freshman in college, it speaks to the heart of those scorned of Love, it’s about trusting in the person who has your heart a ransom for greed. It’s about choices you’ll like it.”
“Characters… can you break down the characters for me?”
“Well, the main character is Gilliam and he’s a recovering alcoholic. He’s involved in a marketing campaign with his lovely partner Sanchez.”
“Ok, I see the whole Boomerang vibe… executives fall in Love type…”
“Give me a little bit of credit for being a creative person...”
“I’m just saying, Eddie Murphy and Halle Berry worked together and that’s how they ended up together. I’m not dissing because I’m a huge fan of Boomerang.”
“Well here’s a program. It’s show time.”
The lights faded… and the music was angelic in tone and quality. My expectations where heightened, my pupils perhaps dilated, but the music suddenly dragged and in slow motioned sequences… I seen the terror on the actors faces as they entered the stage. I gasped and then I heard a flat line; my ears ringing and black smoke every where. The rumblings shook us to the ground and I grabbed Brown as if she were my infant child in the dark after a nightmare. She sneezed and I was relieved to feel the strength in her embrace letting me know she was still living.
My instincts brought me to my feet and I lifted her trying to stay low through the darkness moving toward hints of light where I remembered seeing an exit sign earlier. Practically bulldozed, I fell to the ground and brought Brown with me. I was about to panic until I got a better look at the exit sign and proceeded out the door with Brown in my arms. Aghast, I saw people spilling into the street to behold the array of mini bonfires. Without another thought, I was running as fast as I could down Old main corridor with Brown trailing behind me.
“Don’t leave me!”
“I’m not! Come on hone!” grabbing her hand again.
“Hey there’s the police!”
A police car cut us off as we were scurrying across 10th Street but he didn’t look like he wanted to help. He snickered and pulled out his side arm .
“Oh my God Brown get down!”
“What in the world is going on!” crying.
“I don’t know!”
Shots rang out, and all I could do is blaze trails and pull Brown as fast as I could without pulling her to the ground. I felt a bullet whiz past my left ear and I think I went blank because when I looked up again and reasoned where we were, I was crossing a creek in a wooded park about 2 miles north of the theater we fled from. The streets dawned the obscure; every street light out for as far as we could see. More disturbing, the sounds of cries and discontent echoed in the night and all I could do is hold Brown in my arms and pretend that she was family until I could determine the fate of mine. I wondered if my cousin survived, how the newspapers would read in the morning. Terrorist from another country, perhaps Al Qaeda or racist terrorist within launching a military revolution against the prospective first black president Barak Obama? Even the thought of highly intelligent kids with a plan and a grudge on society, crossed my mind. How many powder kegs did America spark, disgruntled employees, militants…the list goes on? Brown looked at me as I wiped the tears from her eyes.
To Be Continued…in the Spring issue of Voice Quarterly 2010
Doug M. Brooks Copyright © 2009 All rights reserved.
“Excuse me sir…”
I was wading the crowd of actors, stagehands and producers, but someone felt the need to say excuse me…
“Excuse me sir…”
I wasn’t ready I looked into her eyes and saw something extra.
“Pardon me Ms.?”
“Can I see your pass!”
“Excuse me,” I flashed it arrogantly. I tried to turn around and put my nose in the air, but she looked at me as if something… extra was in my eyes too.
“I’m sorry can I help you find a seat the show is about to start.”
“My name is Blair St. Clair… I write for VOICE magazine and I want to sit with somebody that can give me a brief synopsis on the play before the curtains part.”
“Nice to meet you Blair. Your name rhymes… cool beanz! …and I know the play, I wrote it.” She smiled big and I almost cried she was so fine.
“Delightful! Lead the way…”
“Brown, my name is Brown.”
“Nice to meet you Ms. Brown.”
“No, I’m Ms. Jones. My first name is Brown.”
“Wow, that’s rare. It’s a beautiful first name.”
“You must be an artist because only an artist could appreciate my first name.” Laughing, “I got made fun of in school.”
“Well, I won’t make fun of your name, but I’ll make fun of your play if it sucks.” I smiled at her and it wasn’t a fake smile.
The front row seats were accommodating and I tried to pay attention to her synopsis, but she radiated beauty.
“I wrote this play in 2013 when I was a freshman in college, it speaks to the heart of those scorned of Love, it’s about trusting in the person who has your heart a ransom for greed. It’s about choices you’ll like it.”
“Characters… can you break down the characters for me?”
“Well, the main character is Gilliam and he’s a recovering alcoholic. He’s involved in a marketing campaign with his lovely partner Sanchez.”
“Ok, I see the whole Boomerang vibe… executives fall in Love type…”
“Give me a little bit of credit for being a creative person...”
“I’m just saying, Eddie Murphy and Halle Berry worked together and that’s how they ended up together. I’m not dissing because I’m a huge fan of Boomerang.”
“Well here’s a program. It’s show time.”
The lights faded… and the music was angelic in tone and quality. My expectations where heightened, my pupils perhaps dilated, but the music suddenly dragged and in slow motioned sequences… I seen the terror on the actors faces as they entered the stage. I gasped and then I heard a flat line; my ears ringing and black smoke every where. The rumblings shook us to the ground and I grabbed Brown as if she were my infant child in the dark after a nightmare. She sneezed and I was relieved to feel the strength in her embrace letting me know she was still living.
My instincts brought me to my feet and I lifted her trying to stay low through the darkness moving toward hints of light where I remembered seeing an exit sign earlier. Practically bulldozed, I fell to the ground and brought Brown with me. I was about to panic until I got a better look at the exit sign and proceeded out the door with Brown in my arms. Aghast, I saw people spilling into the street to behold the array of mini bonfires. Without another thought, I was running as fast as I could down Old main corridor with Brown trailing behind me.
“Don’t leave me!”
“I’m not! Come on hone!” grabbing her hand again.
“Hey there’s the police!”
A police car cut us off as we were scurrying across 10th Street but he didn’t look like he wanted to help. He snickered and pulled out his side arm .
“Oh my God Brown get down!”
“What in the world is going on!” crying.
“I don’t know!”
Shots rang out, and all I could do is blaze trails and pull Brown as fast as I could without pulling her to the ground. I felt a bullet whiz past my left ear and I think I went blank because when I looked up again and reasoned where we were, I was crossing a creek in a wooded park about 2 miles north of the theater we fled from. The streets dawned the obscure; every street light out for as far as we could see. More disturbing, the sounds of cries and discontent echoed in the night and all I could do is hold Brown in my arms and pretend that she was family until I could determine the fate of mine. I wondered if my cousin survived, how the newspapers would read in the morning. Terrorist from another country, perhaps Al Qaeda or racist terrorist within launching a military revolution against the prospective first black president Barak Obama? Even the thought of highly intelligent kids with a plan and a grudge on society, crossed my mind. How many powder kegs did America spark, disgruntled employees, militants…the list goes on? Brown looked at me as I wiped the tears from her eyes.
To Be Continued…in the Spring issue of Voice Quarterly 2010
Doug M. Brooks Copyright © 2009 All rights reserved.
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Articles, poetry, short stories, theatre resources and entertainment news are packed beautifully in every issue!