“Accident” by Madi Baker
She never wanted a baby. Their screams, their red faces, the tears in their squinty eyes. They want comfort, 24/7 comfort. She wasn’t capable of loving anyone but herself but she accepted that.
Now here he is, he’s looking at her. Cooing, giggling, and even smiling a little. Maybe it’s gas. He’s got her eyes. He’s got his no good father’s blonde hair.
The dogs bark, his eyes fill with tears, and here comes that god damn scream. She can’t take it. It’s not her fault, it was an accident. She hates crying babies.
“Grand Old Ladies” by Lo Cast
The stillness of the night was still lingering as I stepped outside. The air was cool, not quite crisp, and held the promise of shorter, cooler days soon to come. The squirmy little one I held in my arm sniffed with anticipation. This was her time. I set her down and grabbed the leash as she began to trot with determination. We found our rhythm instantly and I breathed deeply, for this was my time also. Destinations silently beckoned and, since it had been a few days, it was time to go visit the grand old ladies.
We made our way down the dimly lit street. This morning, our passing goes all but unnoticed; there was little traffic and few pedestrians. We keep an ever watchful eye as we pass alleyways. Their yawning chasms of murkiness provide the perfect cover for anyone wishing to cause mischief. Onward.
We start and stop, start and stop. Curly tail held high, the little girl springs from tree to hydrant to light posts and every place in between. I wait patiently as she gathers the invisible information each sniff has to offer. She too, has her favorite places, as she smells intently only here and there.
Our quest takes us around the corner to where traffic is bustling and the blushing sky can be seen just above the dark, somber buildings. It will be completely light soon. Perfect. We will be able to see the ladies in their finery by daylight by the time we labor up the hill.
On the main drag, we run a gauntlet of trash cans and recycle bins; trash pick-up occurred only hours, or perhaps minutes, earlier. This part of town, like its residents, live life unapologetically out in the open. It is in your face and all its ugliness assaults the senses.
The younger men, the Grand, Bryan Place, and the Hamilton Hotel stand sentinel, as they have for the largest part of a century or more. Their finery is simple and clean with just a hint of embellishment here and there; a curlicue of decorative molding, a bit of exterior trim or an exaggerated arch lend a bit of playful fanciness to their stoic demeanor. However, these gentlemen are not whom we are seeking, although they do show me a bit more of themselves each time I pass.
We trudge the steepness of hill, ever closer to our destination, barely noticing our labored breath. Just one more corner and a bit more of a hill and we will be there. As predicted, the sky’s blush dims as the sun begins to steal the serenity of the morning. We pass churches, without a glance. I have never had an interest in the snooty, judgmental edifices. Their flagstone veneer, arched doorways, and stained glass windows are pretentious and snobby, much like the nouveau rich. No, I am seeking ladies of class and elegance, which is the very fiber of their existence.
A wrought iron fence leads me to the first one. She is on the left. The ones on the right are much younger, beautiful nonetheless, but cannot hold a candle to the ladies I seek. The trees in front demurely shield their glory like a faithful servant; a hush of reverence surrounds and pays homage to these damsels. A determined pedestrian misses none of the finery in which they are adorned. Her neighbor is the grandest of all. In each detail, a statement of her upbringing is told, despite the indignities to which recent generations have subjected her by making as many apartments of her grand space as possible.
I linger and drink in her grandeur, an appreciative eye noting the graceful porch pillars, the classy bunting permanently falling in delicate waves around each window. Her marble facade bespeaks her quiet wealth. I stare, noting detail after detail. Like the lady she is, her dignity is there for all to see. Her secrets are her own, yet she hides nothing. I love this grand old lady the most. Slowly, I make my way to her neighbor, loving the Grecian columns and balcony that surely must have welcomed partygoers with warmth and gaiety. Each lady I pass has her own distinction, makes her own contribution. I am in a dream world where time has no meaning.
The little one brings me back to the present. She has sniffed all there is to sniff and her tail is drooping her fatigue. The spring in her step is a regular little trot now. Reluctantly, I sigh. With one last lingering look, I nod to the grand old ladies, and turn the corner.