Warning: This chapter contains depictions of Racism, Homophobia, and Child Abuse.
The hot, humid weather ravaged the upper class New Orleans neighborhood. With the summer season in full swing, the sun assailed the city with her boiling force as if she sought a personal vendetta. The generosity of the season produced an abundant array of wildlife. The forest, unadulterated and natural only a mere fifteen yards behind the row of Edwardian estates and their well mannered, man-reared landscapes, had turned to a homogenous mass of effervescent green. Hardy and robust perfumes of healthy soil, and the lingering breath of a summer shower from the day before, swaddled the senses to an almost complacent persuasion. Neighborhood kids chased each other up and down the cobblestone streets, squealing, laughing, and enjoying each other's company as they avoided capture in a game of tag.
At the corner of the street stood a proud Edwardian home, the walls coated with a fresh layer of soft blue paint. White ionic columns and porch balusters stood stoical, like loyal guards on watch for any potential danger that could interfere with the home, and the neighborhood kids remarked that the wrap around porch reminded them of a white icing border swirling around the canvass of a blue birthday cake. Its lively silhouette was truly something to behold, with tall towers looming above domed roof top pavilions, the walls lined with oriel windows. Every methodical detail captured attention, from the meticulously crafted, white spindle work, to the ornate stained glass windows that adorned the front door. Its colors, though not depicting any discernible image, seemed to tickle at the imagination with its spectrum of colors.
An iron fence, barely surpassing four feet in height, engirdled the property, laced from bottom rail to finial with the thorny canes of Alba rose bushes; the lady of the household's prized plants. Beneath the umbrella of a flowering tulipwood in the front yard, Allen sat, protected from the sun's blare as he read.
Slim and angular, he looked older than his actual age, twelve; perhaps it was the manner in which he carried himself. He wore a light cotton shirt, not a wrinkle or string out of place, matched with a brown pair of trousers. His shoes, shiny and well taken care of, were off; set next to him with his socks tucked neatly inside. He brushed back a loose strand of his dark mahogany hair from his vision.
His chocolate brown eyes traced the page through his thin-rimmed glasses as he tried to block out the racket the frolicking children were making. Alas, the clamor pushed and pulled his attention every which way, and kept him from his novel. A gleeful shriek from one of the other kids caught him by surprise. The outburst had pulled him from his immersion, and he frowned in annoyance.
If only they could see how moronic they look running around like that.
In the safety of his mind, he was permitted to think whatever he wanted without the worry of repercussions. The other kids looked like the chickens that often escaped the farming properties nearby, running amok as if they had not an active brain cell in their heads, or a care in the world. Sometimes, the chickens would run out into the road and be struck by a motor vehicle in a combustion of blood and feathers, and he found himself wishing the children the same fates. Not necessarily out of malice, but for a scientific curiosity. Perhaps he could finally understand them if he got a look inside—at all the fleshy cogs and inner workings. How easy would that be to see in a fast-flying Chevrolet?
Easy! He theorized. Chevrolet—easy to start—easy to steer—light pedal action—easy to shift gears—easy to ride in—easy to stop!
He chuckled at the vivid memory of that advertisement of the painted lady in her Sunday best, posted up in the driver's seat of the new Chevrolet Coupe and looking straight at the reader. She should've been looking at the road instead of her blissful, far off gaze. But he supposed that people could do such things when they were allowed to live carelessly. Every time Mother and him spotted that advertisement in the papers, they'd burst into that synchronized chant, and giggled between themselves. Father joked that they ought to put their skills to use and apply to market for them. Allen shrugged off the memory with a hum, and turned back to analyze the group of kids down the street.
YOU ARE READING
Vintage Memories
Fanfiction(Earlier parts of the story are currently being rewritten, chapters 1-12 have been updated) "Seventy-four years..." "Seventy-four...fuckin' years!" "I searched for ya' for decades! I thought ya' were fuckin' dead!" "We are dead, my dear." "Did ya' e...
