AUTHOR MILLIE PRICE
Photo by EOD photography
Short Stories
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This is not a cult.
It's the future.
Death. It’s how these stories always end, but my boss didn't pay me to save people, he paid me to brainwash them. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror in my crummy apartment, I applied expensive lipstick, layered my face with top-of-the-line make-up, squeezed into a body shaper, then a tight black dress, stuffed my manicured feet into a pair of stiletto hills, and brushed my gleaming blond hair so that it fell below my shoulders. Standing in front of the mirror again, I smiled. Everything I wore had been paid for with government funds and I looked hot. I grabbed my purse and walked to the front door. If all goes well, this gig will be my last and all I have to do is sell one, final lie. My name is Meagan; I am a failed journalist who became a social media influencer after a colleague turned me onto the latest internet craze. Political celebrities. I thought it was a joke, another trend gone wild, but she had a sponsor already lined up. A candidate that had won an election and wanted to use his platform to become a king. He had gobs of cash and was willing to throw some of it at me if I promoted his shtick. I was broke, late on rent, and was in dire need of the newest Jimmy Choos so the gig was a no brainer. Heading down the cracked concrete steps outside my door, I walked toward the gaudy red bus waiting for me at the curb. It was empty, save the driver. I flashed a smile, and the driver offered me a hand up the steps. His skin felt like moist sandpaper and his body odor smelled like sour milk and whiskey. It slapped me in the face as I got onto the bus and walked to the seats in the middle to discourage small talk. The driver, like the other people I was heading to meet, thought my boss was a god and after a few videos accentuating my busty features in skimpy clothes, I became their goddess. Keeping small talk to a minimum was part of the gig. My target demographic was people dumb enough to believe that one man could change the world, but they weren’t simple followers or fans. These people were Heaven’s Gate type folks that would follow my boss off a cliff. I called them lovelies on my social media accounts, but in private I called them worshippers. They had plots of land all over the country. I was heading to the one near my apartment in Colorado. The worshipers thought I was coming to support the political monster that had just paid for my Bentley. As usual, they had no clue. The bus climbed the mountain near Crestone, and turned onto an unpaved road guarded by an electrical fence and ten, maybe even twenty ‘No Trespassing’ signs. There were militant men and women standing along the road, each one decked out in full riot gear, and they held automatic weapons. I gave the militants a wink, flashed a smile and pushed my boobs up against the glass for a touch of excitement. I got a smile from one of the guards, but the others stood with faces of stone, their focus on the dusty road behind the bus. The driver continued to another gate made of steel, and we waited for it to open. The worshipers called the plots, “The Land of the Free”. I called them compounds, but only in my head because the gig had come with stipulations: Keep my opinions to myself. Read what they gave me. Show a lot of skin. Follow Tom, the program manager. I stepped off the bus and was immediately greeted by a sea of bald heads. Women and men alike. Thankfully, we were out in the open air, but even so, the stench from unwashed skin filled my nose and turned my stomach. Everyone on the compound wore burlap pants and red shirts that hung over their hungry, tired bodies. The shirts were branded with the same motto printed in white. On the front they read: “This is not a cult.” On the back: “It’s the future.” I swallowed a laugh, flashed my expensive smile and followed Tom through the crowd. Securing my phone onto a selfie stick, I started a live stream. Another stipulation of my contract. My boss wanted the world to see his lemmings' dedication and encourage more worshipers to swallow his obvious, yet effective lies. Turning the camera so that my face filled the feed, I flashed my pouty lips, threw up a peace sign, gave hundreds of thousands of viewers a wink, and then swiped the phone over the crowd. There were a few emojis of anger and a wave of nasty comments on the scroll, but they were from influencers working for the opposing team. Their hatred fueled the worshipers into a frenzy and within seconds, my viewership doubled. I silently cheered. I had earned a bonus with the enormous number scrolling on my cell phone screen. I could put down a deposit on that house in Aspen and finally leave my crummy apartment behind. The compound looked like every other compound I had ever seen. There were numerous trailers, one large building, multiple tents and RVs and vans all haphazardly parked around a large bonfire. The compound itself, was surrounded by a forest, and I could hear a river running not too far away. “Isn’t it illegal to have all these dwellings on residential land?” I asked Tom, placing the screen in front of us so that the viewers could get a good look at what they called success. Tom puffed his chest, making sure that the logo on his shirt was seen on the screen. “Actually, this land has been purchased by a corporation set up by our glorious leader. All who voted for him, and can show proof are welcome to come.” The feed went wild. Free rent, and a group of people that not only looked alike, but all believed the same, small-minded things was like a fairy tale to those watching the stream. “You heard it here first folks,” I said, flashing another wink. It was part of my brand. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell your family out there in the unforgiving woke world Tom?” It was one of the questions I was obligated to ask. Tom’s red face lit up as a smile spread from sunburned ear to sunburned ear. He took a step away from the cell phone and pinched the top of his shirt with both hands, lifting it and shaking it vigorously. “This is not a cult. It’s the future!” I stifled a chuckle as the crowd behind Tom mimicked his movement and the chant began. “This is not a cult. It’s the future.” The feed went wild as thousands of people typed the motto over and over. At first the letters where small, grammar proper, but then they changed to all caps with multiple exclamation points. I couldn’t have set it up better if I tried. I didn’t believe a damn word my boss said, but I couldn’t deny that his shtick was doing the job. We headed through the crowd and further into the compound. I subtly held my breath, letting out small ones, and inhaled quickly to avoid the growing stench around me. The sun was high in the sky, and the heat worsened every smell, but my smile held firm even as I passed a crying child in soiled clothes. I was here to do a job. I had to get it done. I had studied cults for an article when I was still a journalist. That’s how I got the gig as the psycho’s goddess. I was hired to use the information I had gathered to further my boss’s reign because people who fell for cult tactics were the easiest targets. All the cults boiled down to the same two things, acceptance, and the promise of something better bestowed by something greater: the devil, aliens, God, or in this case, a rich white man with an enormous beer gut. Most cults ended up the same but… “This is not a cult. It’s the future.” I shook away yet another giggle as the motto flowed through my head. I shouldn’t laugh. Thanks to these people, and what I was about to do, I would go from internet celebrity to correspondent. I’d be a journalist again. The contract was signed. Tom, followed by the rest of the compound, walked me past amateur busts with my face placed between the dwellings of the property. They stood next to the statues of my boss. Well, statues that represented what my boss could be if he laid off the cheeseburgers. The concrete busts of me were crafted to replicate poses from my social media accounts. Each one had a plaque beneath it with a quote I had been hired to say. “We can be one.” “Your truth his lips.” The worshippers ate that shit up. “We pray at them every night,” Tom said with pride. “And we watch your reels on that big screen over there,” a tiny meager woman pointed to a white sheet hanging between an RV and a trailer. “Mind yourself Karen. You’re speaking out of turn.” Tom’s jovial face had transformed into stone as he glared at the tiny woman. She slunk back into the crowd, her eyes cast down, and her hands tightly clasped in front of her chest. “Don’t let the bastards grind you down,” I said. Tom’s chest swelled again. “That’s right.” The crowd cheered and the feed on the stream went bonkers. It took everything in my will power not to burst into laughter. The quote was from A Handmaid’s Tale. A story about female oppression and ultimately war. Had they ever read a book or watched anything other than the news they would’ve gotten the joke. I flashed a smile, twisted my hips and did a little hop so that my boobs bounced with the crowd. The real reason I had come was quickly becoming something I wanted to do, instead of something I had to do. We walked through foot paths toward the large building in the center of the compound. In front of it was a humungous bonfire. Hanging over the fire, and from a spit were multiple black cauldrons with herbs boiling in water. I turned to Tom. “Is that?—” He cut me off. “The preparations of course.” He threw me a wink. I smiled, but couldn’t hide the furrow in my brow. “It’s for the ceremony. I thought you were aware,” Tom said, his brow furrowed too. “Of course,” I smoothed my face and lifted my chin. We headed into the large building, Tom and I first, followed by the rest of the worshippers, all their eyes bright, their bodies eager to enter behind us. The building, maybe three-thousand square feet or more, had no furniture, only a stage and empty space filled with bean bags, portable chairs, and blankets. The walls were covered with pictures of my boss, each paunch and wrinkles smoothed to perfection, his smile wider than in real life and his stance far more powerful than the one I had seen. Tom stood at the bottom of the stage, waiting for me to take his hand so that he could help me up the steps. I twisted to take another look at the crowd, and my gut churned. Could I really do what I was here to do? I remembered the last line in my contract. “If you choose not to fulfill this obligation. All funds paid will have to be repaid and we will offer the contract to someone worthy.” I thought about the house in Aspen, the Bentley, and those sweet Jimmy Choo heels I’ve had my eyes on all month. These people weren’t worth giving up any of it. Especially when they chose to be here. I took the last step onto the platform, did a sexy little twist and faced the crowd. They rushed to the front of the stage, some of them crying, some of them lifting their hands in prayer to the statue of my boss behind me. In front of the statue were ornate leather chairs with a table in between them. On the table were two wine glasses filled with green liquid. Mine was tea, a specific blend I had requested for the occasion. Ten people entered the building carrying trays of wooden mugs also filled with green liquid from the cauldrons that had been boiling outside. Once the last person entered, the doors were closed and locked. The mugs were handed out, and each person took one, thanking the servers for the blessings they were about to receive. Behind me, a large white screen dropped from the ceiling, and at the other end of the room a projector began to play. Thousands upon thousands of people beamed onto the screen, all of them in compounds like the Land of the Free, but in different parts of the country. They were all bald and wore the same red shirt proudly displaying their motto: “This is not a cult. It’s the future.” I popped the tripod out of my selfie-stick, faced the camera toward the crowd, grabbed my green tea and sat elegantly in my chair. Just like the goddess I was expected to be. Tapping the table beside me with a long, manicured fingernail, I remembered my last meeting. *** We were at a steak house. It was me, Theresa, the social coordinator, and a lawyer named Mack. We sat in a booth far away from the other patrons. I had just read the contract, combed through the fine print and couldn’t believe what I had just read. “But why them?” I asked. “Aren’t they the reason he’s in office.” We were never allowed to say our boss’s name in public. Mack leaned back and tightened his suit jacket around his ample gut. “Our plan to turn the others against each other have failed. The police shootings were designed to start riots that would lead to the extermination of the black neighborhoods. They became stronger, more united. The racist posts by other social media followers were supposed to divide the poor whites against the others in their communities. They had no real effect. The lettered population,” he rolled his eyes, “were our original targets, but there is a spotlight on them that can’t be dimmed. And the immigration raids are costing more money than we can spare. We’ll have to pull out soon.” He leaned over the table. “We’ve made certain promises to certain people you understand. The burden on our government’s budget must be lessened. This is the only way left to achieve that.” I stared at the contract, but didn’t answer. There were too many questions running through my mind, questions I couldn’t ask without risking the gig. I asked the only one that would keep me safe. “But if we do this, won’t it hurt his chances at re-election?” Mack scoffed. “I can see you are hesitant,” he slapped a fat hand over the contract and slid it across the table. “I’m not saying I won’t do it.” I slid the contract back. “I just want to be clear that I won’t face any consequences.” “Other than the promotion to correspondent,” Theresa added. “Yes, other than that,” I replied. Mack reached over to the contract and grazed my hand. I cringed, but hid it well. “As you can see, right here,” he pointed to a tiny line of script. “In the case of litigation, a lawyer will be appointed. That’s me, and I’m the best. I don’t foresee conviction, but if there is, full pardon will be granted. And let’s not forget the funds that will be deposited into your account upon completion.” He flipped the page to the front and tapped on a number with a whole lot of zeroes. *** My gut churned again. My instincts were running amok. They screamed, begging me to stop, but I had a job to do, and damn it, my future depended on it. Tom lifted his wine glass to the crowd. “Today. We become one. A great and powerful nation that will stand against all that defies us. This is not a cult! This is the future!” The crowd in the building and on the screen roared, filling the space with a wall of sound. They lifted the cups to their lips and drank as if the green liquid was life itself. I drank my tea, stood from the chair, and lifted the glass to the crowd. “To the future!” *** The next morning, as I packed up my apartment, I watched the news. Thousands, upon thousands of dead and bloated bodies filled the screen, all of them on compounds across the country. I ran to the toilet and emptied my stomach of the guilt consuming me. The cauldrons over the bon fire had been filled with hemlock. Everyone died except me and Tom. I pulled myself up from the bathroom floor, and gurgled the mouthwash I had left unpacked. It didn’t rinse out the taste of death, but it did cover it for a while. Fixing my lipstick again, I returned to the living room to finish packing the final box. A knock rasped at my door, and I hustled to it, eager to get out of the ratty apartment and head toward my new life. A man in a suit stood on the other side, my driver. A perk of the promotion. “Would you like me to carry that box down to the car?” he asked. “That would be great,” I replied, still holding my stomach. He entered the apartment as a news anchor appeared on the screen with pictures of the dead bodies in a small box at her side. The driver huffed and I saw a smile on his face as he lifted the box and headed for the door. The broadcaster began to speak. “Tragedy struck yesterday as thousands of cult members calling themselves The Land of the Free committed suicide.” I grabbed my purse and slipped on the Jimmy Choos that had arrived when I returned home. “It’s not a cult,” I mumbled as I closed the apartment door. “It’s the future.”
Coincidence?
Sun rays burst through the cloudy sky and down onto a clearing on a mountain top drying the morning dew on the wild grass. A man, tall but stout in a suit of all black emerged from the trees. His hands were held high, as he led his flock to the sun’s promised warmth. There were many that came, men, women and children who had sat in rapt attention as their fearless leader described the message he had received in a dream. Find the spot and be free. Oohs and Ahs filled the air as they wandered through the tall grass, forgetting about the snakes and mountain lions who called the place home. They were eager to be freed, to be lifted to the heavens and away from the drudgery and horror of their lives. Each foot fall dampened their feet, and the cool air raised the flesh of their arms as they approached a large, branded X. Around the mark each blade of grass was laid next to or on top of another and all in the same direction. The flock didn’t notice or care, their eyes were focused on the clouds in the skies, a depiction of the beautiful place that their leader had promised. One by one the people sluffed off the shadows casted by the clouds and emerged into the light of the sun, ready and eager to leave this world and their old lives behind. There was no singing, no prayers, only humbled silence as the man in the black suit approached the mark. Another breeze flitted through the clearing with a calming scent of lavender and marigolds. The crowd sighed in unison as smiles spread across their faces. The man in the suit stepped upon the X. Reaching his hands to the sky, he tilted his head up and his eyes down, smiling to the flock that he had led to salvation. His feet rose from the ground and the soles of his black shoes hovered inches above the lain grass. Then, as if yanked by a string from the heavens, the man disappeared into the clouds with joyous laughter. Without question, people fell in line, each one eager to be taken. Some went alone, others in groups, but they all went willingly and filled with hope. All but one. A young woman. She had spent the entire ride up the mountain questioning the man in the black suit, believing his dream was a farce. It wasn’t. Her eyes widened as her parents joined the line and she clung onto her father’s hands, pulling him away from the mark. He pulled her close, kissed her forehead and then returned to the line. A ball formed in the woman’s throat as fear, apprehension and worry swirled through her mind. She had seen it, had witnessed the truth of the man’s dreams, but there was something inside her body screaming, “Run!” Her feet lifted from the ground by her own force, and she slapped them back into the wet grass, pushing her body away from the clearing and back to the line of trees from which they had appeared. *** Benny and Denice slogged down the trail to their favorite spot hoisting their backpacks higher to their shoulders. Benny, a short king of the tallest order, flipped his bangs from his eyes and wiped droplets of sweat from his face. Denice, only inches taller then Benny, adjusted her sports bra so that her large breasts rested back beneath the elastic that was supposed to hold them in place. The morning breeze rustled the pine needles of the trees sending their sent up the young hiker’s noses as a tune played through a Bluetooth speaker hanging off Benny’s pack. “It’s raining men, really Benny?” Denice huffed and rolled her eyes. They had embarked on an early camping trip to nurse their broken hearts. Denice had been dumped only days before by a man she didn’t like. Yet, after he called it quits, she had found an unexplainable desire for him, as if his rejection had kindled a fire she didn’t know was there. Benny chuckled. “Sorry, I just put on the last playlist I was listening to.” He tried to laugh again but it dissolved into a sigh. He too had been dumped. Just last night. Unlike Denice, he loved his paramour, but the feeling hadn’t been reciprocated. Or at least that’s what Benny had surmised when he found his partner cheating on him. “I’ll change the song.” Denice stopped and put a hand on Benny’s forearm. “No, let it play. For the love of God let the song play.” She plastered a hand to her heart looking up to the sky with all the drama of a black and white movie scarlet. Then she screamed. Grabbing Benny’s chest, she pushed him hard throwing them both to the ground. A form in a black suit hit the trail in front of them like a missile. Benny clamored to his knees and stretched his neck to get a better look. “Is that a person? Denice. Holy shit! I think it’s a person!” The body was mummified, the sunken skin stretched tight over the bones. The black suit it wore swallowed what was left of the man and he had no eyes or a nose. Benny scuttled back toward Denice looking up to the sky. More black dots dropped from the clouds, each one flailing like a rag doll in the wind. “Get up, get up, get up!” He gripped Denice’s wrist and pulled her from the ground. She looked up. “What the fuck!” Denice dug her feet into the ground and pushed her tired legs harder than she had ever pushed them in her life. Behind her, Benny placed his hands on her back, moving her faster. On the backpack, the Bluetooth speaker bounced as the Weather Girl’s belted out the chorus to the song, “It’s raining men, hallelujah, it’s raining men.” Another body dropped, then another and another. It was human rain. The corpses slammed into trees, broke on the boulders and crashed into hard clay. Thud, crash, boomf. There were no squelches, no squishiness because there was no blood, only taught mummified flesh.
Dixie
Blackbird
The corset pinched Leticia Moreno’s ribs, Leti for short, but she smiled. Like the minds and beliefs of the people surrounding her, the corset was a fashion relic from decades ago, but it helped sell the lie. The dress she wore weighed heavily, but she moved with grace, each change in posture trained, each breath timed. The men surrounding her at the dining room table laughed while enjoying their meal and consumed drink after drink. Leti dreamed of that kind of freedom, to enjoy life unabashedly. It was a dream that the men around her lived every day. Jeremiah Worthington slid a hand over hers. He was a financier who came from a long line of financiers, but he had also been a soldier. People called him a hero and told Leti she was the luckiest woman alive, but it wasn’t luck that brought Leti to Jeremiah and the Overlook; it was cunning, preparation and lies. He turned to the other men, his hard lined face handsome and stoic. “I do believe our talk may be inappropriate for such delicate ears.” His rough hand caressed Leti’s flawless face, her weapon and her shield. “Shall I walk you to your room?” Leti’s ruby red lips smiled. “I do believe that would be best.” She placed a hand on the table, as she had practiced. “Gentlemen. I am honored by your visitation.” The men stood and one of them, a squat man with an untailored suit bowed. “Please. The honor is mine. If you could convey, to your father of course, that your company was an honor as well Ms. Moreno.” Her father, Gustavo, was a wealthy Spaniard thanks to his own talents in finance and was making moves to expand his businesses to New York. Leti’s marriage to Jeremiah would be the building blocks to an international partnership and a promise of a good life for his loyal and ever-obedient daughter. “Of course, Mr.?” she paused. The man’s eyes widened and he stiffened. “Mr. McPherson. Donald McPherson.” “Of course. I apologize. The wine was quiet potent.” Donald blushed. “Then it was a good night, madam.” Leti dropped her head and lifted her eyes, another practiced motion she executed with perfection. “Indeed, it was Mr. McPherson. Indeed, it was.” She turned from Donald and stared longingly into Jeremiah’s eyes. He was impressed. She’d done well. Slipping her arm into his, she let him lead her from the dining room. They walked through the hallways of the Stanley hotel. It had been a long dinner, and Leti couldn’t wait to get to her room, disrobe and peel away the mask. The chandeliers gleamed above her shining on posters advertising a minstrel performance to benefit the Estes Park Firefighters called “Dixie Blackbird”. Leti’s eyes glanced over the three men on the poster, they were in black face with lips as red as hers, their white jazz hands flailed. She turned away. Outside herself, the world was a dream. Inside, it was all a lie. Jeremiah greeted another couple heading to the bar. The man, tall and pristine, addressed Jeremiah with curt politeness. He wore shining Ferragamo shoes, a tailored suit from Ohlsons and a diamond studded wedding ring. The finest of 1940s fashion. The woman with him didn’t have a ring, but she wore jades and diamonds around her neck and wrist. Leticia made note to avoid her. Mistresses had insight that wives didn’t because they were hungrier than most. She smiled at the woman. It was warm but fake. The woman smiled back. It was cold and sad. They waited until the men finished with their pleasantries, then parted ways. Leti never looked back. She stayed focused on Jeremiah. It was how things were done. Stepping into a full elevator, Leti plastered on another false smile. She tried to breathe slowly, but the corset had stolen her comfort hours ago. A few more moments and she’d be free of the façade. The people around her traded chitchat and she joined in the ritual. “I love your dress. Is that silk?” “Those earrings are so unique. You must give me the name of your jeweler.” And so on, and so on. It was systematic and predictable, but could she really survive a lifetime of such repetitiveness? She counted the seconds from floor to floor, keeping time with a light tap of her foot. She was living a dream. A dream that others like her wouldn’t dare to dream. She turned to Jeremiah and ran a hand down his chest. He grabbed her hand and kissed it. The elevator door opened to the third floor and Leti released fluttering laughter as one of the men finished a joke he had been telling during the ride. She had no clue what the man said, or why it was so funny, but the people around him laughed, and so did she. Jeremiah bid the crowd goodbye, and Leti gave a coquettish wave as she was turned by the small of her back and led to her hotel room door. Only a few more steps and her torment would be over. Jeremiah grabbed her hand and kissed it again. “Soon we will be married, and never again will we have to part in front of closed doors.” Leti caressed his strong jaw. “Not all doors.” She winked. Jeremiah chuckled. “And so, it is Ms. Moreno. Until tomorrow then?” “And all the tomorrows after.” Leti’s chest fluttered. The line was absolute perfection. Jeremiah blushed and leaned in for a kiss. She touched his lips tenderly with her full set resting upon his bottom one and then gently pulled away. “Good night.” “Good night.” Leti thrust the key into the hole, doing her best not to seem eager as she entered her room and quickly closed the door. She leaned against the wood and waited until Jeremiah’s footsteps receded, then she tore at the heavy dress to disrobe. A poster for “Dixie Blackbird” hung on one of the hotel room walls. Leti asked for one when she arrived so she could relieve her suppressed rage by poking out the men’s eyes after a long day of pretending, but it had become a daily reminder of the thin rope she walked instead. She even named the men. The one on top of the troupe was called Tom, the two posed below him were Dick, and Harry. They were the only company Leti, the true Leti, had. On the third day of her stay at the Stanley, she began talking to the men, and on the fourth day, they talked back. “For the love of God, I thought I was going to pass out. Those men just kept going on and on.” Leti pulled and tugged at her corset. Tom rolled his blue eyes. They were stark against the black paint. “They could smell it on you, that African wetness between your legs. You can hide it on your face, but they can still taste it on their tongues. Soon, they will know and they will take it.” Harry laughed and the red paint around his lips cracked. “They are going to have so much fun with you when they find out the truth. So much fun with the little nigger girl.” Dick hissed. “If you knew what was best, you’d keep a blade in that corset and give them what they all deserve.” Leti put on a nightdress and sat on the edge of the bed facing the three hateful men. She knew their voices were in her head, that their movements were a hallucination, but she didn’t care. They were the only people she could talk to without worrying about the Black beneath her off-white tone, the repressed bone structure behind her button nose, and the roots inside her full lips. “Killin’ a few white men isn’t going to make a difference in this world. Besides once I’m married everything will work out just as Father planned.” Harry cackled. “Until Jeremiah sees that Black baby squirming out your cooch.” Tom nodded. “The dream will shatter girl. Best you cut Jeremiah loose.” “But consider taking down a couple of those men before you do,” Dick hissed again. “You may not save the world, but you can keep a couple of necks free from the rope.” Leti turned away from the poster so the men couldn’t see the contemplation on her face. Hallucination or not, their words were her thoughts. She walked to the vanity on the other side of the room and picked up a picture frame. The photo was of her, Gustavo and his wife Marcella. Marcella had fair skin, long dark hair, and was the perfect Spanish wife, but Gustavo was in love with another; a Black, light-skinned, house servant named Carmela. Marcella could not bear children, but Carmela could and soon after the marriage, she became pregnant with Gustavo’s child. Fearing the whispers, and harsh words sure to follow, Marcella drank heavily, shrinking into herself day by day, but then all her worry changed to relief when Carmela died during birth. To make matters even better, Leti had green eyes, off-white skin, and wavy raven hair like her father. The decision was made; Marcella and Gustavo would raise Leti as their child, but the love in Gustavo’s eyes was never for Marcella. It was only for Leti and the true love he lost. When Leti turned three, Marcella died of consumption and Leti was motherless again. After Marcella was laid to rest, Leti finally learned of Carmela and her African lineage, but knowledge of her was all she was allowed. Gustavo had worked hard to gain respect as a Spanish financier and couldn’t allow the truth of Leti’s lineage to deter his path. He sent her to the finest schools, taught her the best of manners, and educated her on how to hide the Blackness beneath her off-white skin. He knew his wealth and status could not save her from the torments of those that believed she should not exist if her truth were revealed. Leti kissed her father’s face, held the picture frame to her chest and then gently set it onto the vanity. “Jeremiah is a good man, and marrying him will serve my father and I well. It is for the best.” She slipped into her bed and stared at the poster again. The black painted faces were stone, their eyes gleamed and their mouths were frozen in perfect smiles. The next day was more of the same. Practiced posture, movements and conversations ruled every moment outside of Leti’s room and she was all too happy when Jeremiah got called away to deal with business leaving her to roam the hotel grounds alone. Autumn days in the mountains were a sight to behold, and Leti gawked at the changing leaves, wondering how great it would be to change color and be loved for it. A cold blast of air hit her face, and she lifted her nose to the sky to take in the promise of the winter as it chilled her ruby red lips. If she could, she would be the wind blowing across the world, around obstacles, and through the clouds. She’d never have to stop, never have to pretend, she would just blow and blow and blow. Another gust blew down the mountain, and she extended her arms to twirl as it swirled around her. In nature Leti was free. In nature she was who she was born to be. “Mornin’ ma’am,” a deep-throated voice cut into Leti’s thoughts and she jumped, startled by the interruption. A tall Black man stood before her, his skin the color of chocolate with eyes to match. He wore a shirt that clung to thick muscles, and slacks that wrapped bulging thighs. Leti blushed. She’d seen Black people in Spain, but she’d never been close to them for fear they would sense their own and start controversy. The man in front of her was the first Black person she’d seen since arriving in Colorado, and she was far away from the prying eyes of her father’s estate. “Good mornin’,” she mimicked, letting her perfect pronunciation slip before remembering she was outside of her room. The man caught the slip and smiled. “You staying at the Stanley?” “Yes. Have you?” It was a stupid question. Leti knew that not even the maids, butlers, or cooks were Black in the Stanley. The man chuckled. “I assure you I have not.” He offered her a hand. “Name’s Billy, Billy Withers ma’am. Nice to make your acquaintance.” Leti moved to take it but saw one of the couples from the previous night strolling the grounds of the hotel. They stopped to look at her, and she pulled her hand back and gave Billy a polite nod. “Nice to meet you sir. I’m Ms. Moreno.” Billy saw the couple too and pushed his hands into his pockets taking a quick step back. “Nice to make your acquaintance. I’m just dropping off a few things to the hotel; I didn’t mean to get in your way.” He pulled the cart behind him to the side. Leti felt the couple’s eyes burning into her back. She lifted her chin and took small steps past Billy until there was a respectable distance between them. Then she turned to the couple and waved. They waved back, turned around, and headed to the hotel. When they asked, as Leti was sure they would, she would show compassion and empathy, tell them she felt sorry for the young man. They would buy it. The only thing people at the Stanley loved more than being hateful, was pretending they were not. Waiting until the couple was out of sight and the grounds were cleared again; she turned back to Billy. “Do you work in town?” she asked, eager to grab his attention again. It was his eyes; they reminded Leti of her father’s stories about Carmela. He always lamented on the richness of her brown eyes and how they shined. Billy kept his distance. “There are no Black folks allowed in this town ma’am. Not to work, and not to play. No, no. I work at the Black resort on the other side of the mountain, but I bring supplies to the Stanley when they are demanded.” Leti put her hands on her hips. “Black resort? Are you funnin’ me?” Billy chuckled. “No ma’am. It’s real all right. Of course, you’ll never hear anything about it in a place like this, and to be honest, we’d like to keep it that way.” Without thinking, Leti took two steps closer to Billy. “I’d like to hear more about it.” “Ms. Moreno. Ms. Moreno!” A butler from the hotel rushed towards them. “Are you all right. Should I send someone?” His face was filled with frantic worry. It was as Leti feared. The couple from earlier thought she was in danger. After all, she was a delicate White woman alone with such a scary Black man. Leti sighed. “I’m sorry. I should go before I cause you any trouble,” she told Billy. “Yes ma’am. I believe that would be best.” Without bidding her goodbye, Billy tucked his head into his chest, stared at the ground, and dragged his wagon up to the hotel. The butler chastised him in a low voice as he passed. After the reprimanding he pointed to another path that led behind the hotel, tugged his vest down tight and approached Leti with a wide smile. “I apologize for that awful show of disrespect, madam. I got word you may be in an uncomfortable predicament and rushed out as soon as I could. Are you all right?” Leti lifted her chin just a bit. She had to show she was indeed offended, but her grace would never allow her to take it out on the help. “I’m quite good sir. I was only inquiring as to where the young man had come from and why he was here.” The butler dropped his head. “We get deliveries from time-to-time. We allow those people to use this trail because it is the fastest way to get them on and off the grounds. I do apologize for the inconvenience. Had I known you would be out alone today, I would’ve have found you an escort to keep you from such an offense.” Dick’s voice tore through her mind. Because that’s what you are to them. Something to be flicked, to be crushed beneath a shoe. Then Harry. Little nigger girl found a little nigger boy and wants to have all his nigger babies. Then Tom. A blade across the tongue would shut the butler up. We’ll show you how. Leti took a deep breath and plastered on her perfect smile. “Please, it is not your fault. I got lost in the beauty of nature. Mr. Worthington was called away on business, and I insisted that I stay. If anyone accuses you of forgetting your job, you can tell them to ask Mr. Worthington or me. We’ll vouch for your steadfastness.” She smiled again and felt a wave of relief when the butler blushed. It was another lesson taught to her over the years: assert dominance in status, make those who serve believe they have done wrong, then offer salvation. It worked every time. “Thank you madam. You are very gracious. Please, may I escort you back to the hotel? Mr. Worthington is waiting for you.” “Very good.” She draped her arm ever so lightly on the butler’s as he guided her back up the trail. A gust of wind pushed up her back as if to say goodbye and a brown and yellow leaf floated over her head reminding her, once again, that her colors could never change. Billy’s eyes flashed through her mind. “What was the servant bringing to the hotel?” “Extra libations, madam, for the minstrel show tonight. It’s one of the most popular in the States, I am sure that you will love it.” Leti forced another smile but this time it hurt deep inside her soul. How could she love a show that tore at the unrecognized parts of her, that made who she actually was a joke? Still, she would have to endure, she would have to laugh and cover her mouth to hide her disgust as Tom, Dick, and Harry became real and mocked everything she never got to love. At the thought, her perfect steps faltered, and she clung to the butler to keep her balance. “I see that you’re already excited madam.” Leti giggled— “Indeed I am.”—and a little part of her died. A blade across the tongue, then the throat. We’ll show you how to inflict more pain than they could ever imagine. The words floated through her mind as she approached the front steps, and she looked up at the humungous white building before her. A real smile crossed her lips this time as four simple words rippled through her. That would be nice. The rest of the day and evening went as the last two weeks had gone: perfect posture, perfect words, perfect steps. In three days, she would be on a plane back to New York to be reunited with her father and to prepare for the wedding to Jeremiah, but for the first time Leti had doubts. She now understood that if any of these people dared to look beyond her “good” hair, green eyes, and her father’s wealth they would tear her apart. Two weeks ago, her marriage to Jeremiah was the answer, the escape, now she felt it was a gilded cage. For the rest of her days, she would erase herself bit by bit. And what of a child? Were Tom, Dick, and Harry correct? Would she bear a child with Billy’s skin? Then it would’ve all been for nothing, the torment, the secrets, the tiny deaths she felt within her soul. She walked down the hotel halls on Jeremiah’s arm performing as she did every single day, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Billy. Could she feel freedom on his arm? Live without worry? Love without disdain? She and Jeremiah reached the main lobby and headed for the dining hall. The lobby was filled with the same poster hanging in Leti’s room. The blackened faces snickered, some of them winked, and others drew fingers across their throats. Tom, Dick, and Harry were everywhere. Jeremiah led her to a sofa near a large fireplace and sat her down. “Are you all right, my love? You seem to be distracted. Are you fretting over the encounter with that delivery boy?” Leti held in a gasp. She knew the news of her conversation would get to him sooner or later, but he hadn’t mentioned it all evening. She placed a hand on his thigh and slowly moved it up and down. “I love how you worry about me,” she replied, avoiding his question. “Of course I do, my love. You are my heart. If you were to get hurt, I would be wounded.” He caressed her face. “The thought of one of those…” she felt the unsaid word in her bones. He huffed. “I should’ve never left you alone like that.” Tom called out to her from a poster across the room. “If you think he’s mad now. Wait until he sees his little nigger baby.” Then Harry. “He will kill you once he sees the truth.” Then Dick. “A blade across the throat and then into the heart.” Then all three. “We’ll show you how to love your anger, your rage.” Before she could stop them, words fell from Leti’s lips. “Oh, do shut up.” Jeremiah balked and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry?” Her eyes went wide, but she controlled them and placed a gentle hand on Jeremiah’s chest. “You are so good to me. Too good. You shouldn’t worry yourself over a moment in time. It was nothing. If my mind has been clouded it was because of the colors of the changing leaves. They were so beautiful Jeremiah.” A large sigh escaped Jeremiah’s lips and his smile returned. “I can’t wait to marry you.” “And I you my love.” It was enough and for once in Leti’s life she was happy about how easy it was to placate men with her looks and loving touches. He kissed her, rose and offered a hand. “Come, let us get through dinner with my colleagues, and then I will take you to the room to get some rest before the show.” “That would be nice.” Leti took his hand and let him lead her to the dining room. Their dinner companions were already engaged in a boisterous conversation. Leti cast her eyes down to the table. The steak knife’s serrated edge caught the light from the chandeliers above. She placed her hand over the knife and slipped it into her sleeve. The men on the posters giggled and laughed. “A blade across his manhood and up to the chest. Gut him, gut him like a pig!” Leti closed the door to her hotel room. She waited until Jeremiah’s footsteps retreated and then pulled the steak knife from her sleeve. She twisted it in her hand as she fumed. Every other word at the dinner table had been nigger this and nigger that, fake white niggers in big nigger hats. She wanted to scream. How could she endure a lifetime of this? How?! All her life she had been made to be one of them, and although she knew the disdain White people had for people like her, the true her, Gustavo had kept her protected, made their hate out to be something that would pass. Leti knew the truth, no matter who she married, who she was, it would never pass. She turned to the poster, and the three men came to life again. Harry chuckled. “I think she’s finally starting to get it.” Then Tom. “Little nigger girl is finally understanding that she is indeed a nigger.” Then Dick. “Blades for them all. Gut them like pigs.” The blade gleamed beneath the light, and she stared at it entranced. The three men spoke in unison. “We’ll show you how.” Leti sat on the edge of the bed in front of the poster and placed the knife onto her lap. She didn’t realize she hadn’t moved until a knock sounded on her door. It was Jeremiah picking her up for the show. She had been sitting on the edge of the bed for over an hour. “Leti. Are you awake? The show will be starting soon, I thought we could enjoy a drink together before we find our seats.” She lifted her chin. “I’m decent. Why don’t you come on in.” Jeremiah opened the door, checked the hallway and then quickly entered the room. When he turned towards her, Leti was on her feet, the steak knife gripped tight in her hand. She thrust it into his heart throwing her weight behind it. He grabbed her around the waist, his eyes wide and filled with confusion as they slunk to the floor. “What…why?” “They showed me how,” Leti smiled as her dazed eyes filled with madness. “I saved you Jeremiah. Saved you from your nigger child.” With a slow, weak arm he raised a hand to her face. “I always knew, my love. Your father told me, but I love you still.” Tears welled in her eyes. “You knew and you were going to marry me anyway?” There was no answer, only two dead eyes staring into the abyss. The three men on the poster’s laughed as Leti pulled herself from the ground, staring at the crimson blood covering her delicate hands. With a tormented roar she tore Tom, Dick, and Harry from the wall and ripped them to shreds. There was only one choice left for her, she had destroyed all others with a knife. She left the room and headed for the theater. A blood curdling scream drew the crowd’s attention to the parted curtains over the stage in the theater room. Beneath the lights, Leti’s body swung from a noose. Her face was painted black; her lips were bright red and at her waist hung a sign written in Jeremiah’s blood. I AM FREE Mr. McPherson, the man Leti had spent so many dinners enduring, leaned over to his mistress. “She was a victim of empathy, she was. The female curse. What a waste.” Leti’s ghostly form hovered next to the mistress, and she leaned into her other ear. “A blade to his manhood and then up his chest. Gut him like a pig. I can show you how.”