Briar Rose Fantasy

I have not written anything in a long time. Inspiration is hard to come by some times. I usually get my ideas from dreams. I haven’t had any in a while that I remembered after waking up or worth putting on paper. Well, a couple nights ago I had a good one. It probably helped that I was having trouble sleeping in order to remember the dream so vividly. Anyway, after hemming and hawing about how I couldn’t write this story because I don’t know enough about American black culture, my husband told me to stop making excuses and just do it. So today I did. There are still elements missing, and it sounds a little like a movie script and less like a novel, I offer the first three pages:

Shawna stands on stage, microphone in hand, head thrown back as her voice echoes through the arena. Thousands of voices can be heard screaming along with the words. She is at the height of her career, her albums going double platinum, but even as the music swells inside her chest ripping out through her throat like a geyser, she feels hollow. Sweat beads on her brow causing her chocolate brown skin to glisten in the glow of the stage lights. As the last note escapes through her mouth, she drops into a quick bow. She stays that way for a second letting the crowd’s applause to roll over her. She breathes in short gasping breaths. As the energy of her fans slams into her, she, just as suddenly rises to her full height, arms flung up into the air. The crowd erupts once again with renewed clapping and cheers, begging for more. The lights go out and a disembodied voice says softly into a microphone, “Thank you.”

“That was the scene just in July at a Shawna Bell concert at Madison Square Garden in New York. Shawna Bell has shot up from working at this small Chinese restaurant just ten years ago to one of the world’s biggest African American pop singer. The Mrs. Wong remembers the day Shawna came to her rescue.”

“The day my restaurant burned down, I lost my husband and my family’s livelihood in a few short hours. Shawna had work for us for two years as a teenager. That day, Shawna was home from the Army, visiting her parents. She had not work for us for over a year already. When she heard the news, she came over right away. She had no money, she said, but she would ask her father and her church for help. She look very determined. There was this look in her eyes. I knew that she would do everything she could to help us,” the thickly accented voice of Mrs. Wong plays over news coverage of fire fighters fighting a restaurant fire.

Shawna’s eyes fill with tears as she sits in her room staring at a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Wong. They were her surrogate family, hiring her when she was fifteen even though they could not afford to. Shawna gave them all her free time in return, even babysitting their then three year old son and two year old daughter. They fed her and worried about her. Mr. Wong even helped with her algebra homework. As the memories careen through her mind, sobs escape her throat, burning and tearing. She had not been home an hour when she turned on the TV to see the Wong’s restaurant in flames. She had not even changed out of her army fatigues.

“Shawna?” Mrs. Bell stood outside her door.

Mrs. Bell entered the room upon hearing her daughter’s sobs and said matter-of-factly, “Shawna! What is the matter?”

“Oh Mother,” she had to be careful here. She had to convince them to help and that she was not after charity.

She took a deep breath to stifle the sobs wiping her face with a handkerchief nearby.

“Mother, I just learned that a good man passed away in a fire at his restaurant. His family needs help to re-build and I-“ she broke down, “I don’t know how to ask Father for his help!”

She quickly covered her face, knowing that in her grief and anger she had already failed Mrs. Wong.

“Do you really see your father as that unfeeling? No, never mind, I can see by your look that you do. Well, don’t worry. Your father will be more than happy to help. I will organize the Ladies of the Church to start a fundraiser.” Mrs. Bell pats the hands clenched in her lap and leaves the room. Shawna looks on in astonishment.

Could it be? Will he help?

“The entire church mobilized to help me and my family. My children were very young. Luckily they were in school when the fire happened. I cooked for hundreds of volunteers as money, supplies, and contractors crawled all over our restaurant. I was so happy. People help me with my bills and taking children to school. The grand opening, everyone in the neighborhood show up. My business was better than ever after that. I have now something I can leave my children. I will always be so grateful to Shawna, Pastor Bell and his church.”

The broadcast breaks for commercials, and the smartly dressed black woman sitting across from Lily turns down the volume. She looks up, lost in thought. Lily is trying not to stare. She steals glances of her as she busily crochets a baby afghan. The pink and white material gathers atop her very pregnant stomach. Her husband has left her there to look for the rest of her family. At the thought of him, Lily’s cheeks turn slightly pink. They had only been married for a few months. He had done right by her and their baby.

The older woman comes out of her reverie and notices the young woman blushing and resting a gentle hand on her stomach. The vision gave her the feeling of a warm hand touching her heart. The young girl looks up from her protruding belly to notice the older woman looking her way. Her eyes grow wide and she looks down guiltily. Now that is a puzzle. She stood up taking her small portable TV with her and walked the few steps to the bench where the young girl sat alone.

“May I join you?” her voice was cultured and clear.

“Wha? Oh, yeah, sure,” Lily said flustered as she shuffles over to make room.

“Thank you,” the older woman said as she sat down.

“That is quite beautiful. Is it for the baby?”

“Oh, this? Yeah. It’s supposed to be an heirloom,” she looked proud at using the big word she had just recently learned, but then looked crestfallen.

“I guess this sort of thing ain’t all that important now, huh?”

“Oh no, dear child, we all will need signs that we are loved after this crisis. You continue making that lovely afghan. We will all need new heirlooms when the world starts over.”

“I don’t mean to be nosy, but what is it you’re listening to?”

The other woman looked startled for second as if she had forgotten what she held in her hands. She quickly turned up the volume, but it was more concert footage from Madison Square Garden, so she ignored it for a bit to answer the young woman’s question.

“It’s a documentary on Shawna Bell. Do you know her?”

“Oh, definitely, I own just about every CD by her!” Lily said enthusiastically.

A small smile of pride danced briefly across the other woman’s face.

“She is my daughter and we have not spoken in many years,” she said sadness coloring her voice.

She took a deep breath to dispel her gloom. She could see the pity washing away the star struck look in her eyes. She could not abide pity.

“She did not get on well with the Pastor,” she said by way of explanation.

“I’ve heard rumors about that,” she stifled her curiosity to discover the true story behind Shawna Bell’s estrangement from her family. She asked instead, “Where is Pastor Bell now?”

Distracted by what was now playing on her small screen, Mrs. Bell did not answer.

“Shawna Bell’s talents were readily apparent to the members of XYZ Church,” the voice announces over home footage of a young, seven year old Shawna singing in front of the church choir.

Mrs. Bell’s eyes glistened with held back tears.

“Momma, I want to sing at church today,” a seven year old Shawna announced in yellow Sunday dress.

“Do you, now? Well, we shall ask your father,” a younger Mrs. Bell replied.