A Pretty Streetwalker--MJ Horror Story Exclusive!

Prostitution. It’s the world’s oldest profession. As long as there have been women, there have been women selling their “wares” for money. No matter the town, big or small, there, somewhere, is a red light district with these women. Very often it’s the same story, told over and over and for one man, it’s the last story he’d ever want to hear.

“A Pretty Streetwalker”
A Michael Jackson Horror Story By:
Tiffeny

The Philips Hotel
Downtown Los Angeles
May 9th, 1982

It was a wild frantic scene outside that old hotel on that balmy summer night.
A few dozen people, of the sleazoid set: hookers, winos and drug addicts were crowding around and gazing on at the scene unfolding.
Several police cars were parked haphazardly on the street, red and blue lights flashing, sires screaming into the night.
Police milled on the sidewalk doing their best to keep the rejects of the city from getting underfoot, some conversing into walkie-talkies.
Wee-ooh! Wee-ooh! Wee-ooh!
Over the din caused by the police cars, an ambulance came to a slick halt outside the building and almost automatically, two medics leapt out, taking the gurney with them and rushing past the cops and on into the rickety old building.
“Stay back…I said stay back! Don’t make me club you out here!”
Officer Carl Withers was threatening as some of the crack heads weren’t really cooperating with him.
“Aw, you ain’t gonna do a damn thing, Brother!” A crack head, skinny and toothless taunted, but did move back a few paces.
He knew better than to mess with Carl who was nearly seven feet tall and three hundred pounds, if he was an inch and ounce.
“Hey Carl!” At the call, the cop turned and saw one of the friends on the force, Johnny Ringwald approaching him, clipboard in hand.
“What’s going on man? What’s the problem? All I got from headquarters was that there was a disturbance.” Johnny, a tall--though not as tall as Carl, and a bit wiry wondered, standing beside him.
“I don’t know, man. All I heard was that the guy who owned this place rented a room to some guy for the night and about an hour later he started screaming his head off. We don’t know if he’s high on something or just plain loony.”
Carl began to explain when suddenly over all the noise of the night they could hear a man screaming shrilly.
“She’s dead! She’s dead! She died! She died! Blood! Blood everywhere! Oh my God! Help me!”
A moment later, the medics reappeared and were pushing their gurney.
Strapped to it and flailing wildly against the restraints, was a young man in a dingy white t-shirt, and blue jeans, a royal blue satin bomber jacket draped over his lap.
He was shoeless, a hole in one of his socks.
Large, dark doe eyes focused on the officers as he was wheeled past them.
“Blood! Blood! She’s dead! Help me! Police! Help! Please!” He begged as tears sprang from his eyes and were streaming down his reddened cheeks.
Carl and Johnny looked on solemnly as the man was hoisted up into the back of the ambulance and the doors slammed on him.
A third officer, short and stocky, Chester Bailey appeared, a clipboard of his own in his hands.
“Hey, you guys, we got a little information on that kid.” He announced and started to look at his board.
“Yeah, you caught the one that flew over the cuckoo’s nest!” Johnny exclaimed and he and Carl laughed heartily.
“Be serious for five damn seconds, will ya?” Chester grumbled glaring Johnny and Carl with agitation.
The two men did quiet down, but their eyes flashed with amusement.
“We found I.D. on that kid. Name’s Michael Jackson. I don’t think that kid’s high or insane. His I.D. says he’s from Encino--good neighborhood too.”
“Then what was he going ape-sh*t bonkers for, then? If he’s clean?” Carl inquired  and was scratching at his bald head with curiosity.
“My guess is he was chasing the “muff” around and else saw or did something that spooked the hell out of him. That kid--he’s scared. I could see it in his face. Whatever he saw or did, it’s gotten the best of him.”
Removing the shades he wore--though it was dark--Johnny squinted at Chester and stated,
“Now, I wonder just what happened….”

The Previous Afternoon

As the day’s last strains of sunlight were turning to dusk, just before night was to settle in, a car appeared on the horizon.
Easing along the cracked and crumbled concrete on the seedy side of town, it was instantly apparent to anyone looking on that the car was out of place.
In a place where the median income was less than ten thousand dollars annually, the car was a piece of misplaced luxury.
A deep grey, Rolls Royce Coupe pulled to a halt at an abandoned street corner, where the burnt and charred remains of what had been a liquor store stood.
As a drunkard, his booze concealed in a brown paper bag stumbled by, staring at the car, the door opened.
Michael Jackson, seated in the front passenger seat, peered out nervously, as he’d never been that deep in the underbelly of the city.
“Fellas…I…I don’t know if I want to do this…” He said nervously, and was running a shaking hand through his short black tendrils.
“You should have thought about that before your little happy ass pulled the short straw!” Michael’s older brother Jackie, guffawed from where he sat behind the steering wheel.
Three more of Michael’s brothers, Tito, Jermaine and Randy were laughing from the backseat.
“Yeah Mike! Get out the car before someone steals the hubcaps!” Jermaine ordered, evoking the car to crow and was shoving Michael’s shoulder in an effort to make him exit the car.
“I’m going! I’m going! Stop!” Slapping at Jermaine’s hand, Michael timidly slipped from the car and was closing the door.
“Now remember, we’ll be back for you in three hours, Bro.” Jackie pointed.
“Yeah, and you better have some proof! Or we’ll dump you right here all over again!” Tito declared and Randy was waving in amusement.
With that, the car pulled off, tires squealing.
And Michael was alone.
Standing there, he watched the cars tail lights in the distance.
After a moment, the realization of the situation hit him and anguished he covered his face with his hands.
He couldn’t believe it. He had no idea how he’d even gotten talked into this cockamamie scheme.
It had all started at Jermaine’s house.
He and his brothers had all been sitting around, shooting the breeze and knocking back root beers. Just talking and carrying on like brothers do.
Somehow the conversation had come around to outrageous stunts they had pulled in their youth--though none of them were over the age of thirty, really.
There was the time Tito had eaten one hundred large marshmallows on a dare. (And puked immediately after swallowing the last one.)
Or how Jermaine tried to give himself a home perm and burned all the hair off his head.
Silly, wild things.
It had been young Randy that came up with the idea:
Drawing straws to see who would come into city to solicit the “services” from a lady of the night.
Michael had no clue as to what the hell possessed him to reach up and grab a straw. He didn’t believe in prostitutes and usually felt sorry for the women who felt that they had to sell their bodies for a little bit of change.
He was a bit disappointed in his brothers for even considering the idea.
So he’d nearly passed out for dead when he came up holding the short straw.
Actually he had passed out.
And when he came to, he was already halfway to Los Angeles, his brothers hooting that Michael was about to “get busy”.
Standing there on the corner, next to the skeleton of a building, Michael finally lowered his hands and grumbled.
How was he going to pick a hooker? He’d never done such a thing in his life.
Hell, he had trouble picking “good” girls to ask on dates!
He’d never thought of such a thing in his life.
Pacing in a small circle, Michael worried to himself.
How was he going to pay the woman? How was he going to protect himself from any of the multiple diseases that these women could possibly be crawling with?
It was all so frightening. Especially the idea of VD. He didn’t want to get sick or have important body parts suddenly fall off.
Michael was so unprepared for that.
Or so he thought.
Shoving his hands in to the pockets of his blue satin jacket, Michael was surprised to feel wads of paper in his pocket.
Pulling out the wads, Michael was surprised to see that his brothers had actually had the nerve to stuff his pockets with the essentials--a hundred and fifty dollars, and a little strip of prophylactics.
Michael made a mental note to break all his brothers noses if he survived the night.
Standing there, looking at the paper in his hands, Michael hatched a quick scheme of his own.
He was going to find a streetwalker, a clean looking one if possible, and pay her to just sit with him. Just sit and talk with him until time was up.
No using his body or her body or breaking any moral codes.
Yeah, that would work. It had to.
Straightening his shoulders and hopefully looking confident enough to avoid being mugged, Michael started on his way down the street, towards an adult theatre where a bunch of people, and possible hookers, were loitering.
Easing over, near the front of the theatre, trying to be inconspicuous as possible.
Lord what would his mother have said about him being out there?
Where the attractions being shown that night were entitled The Glory Hole, Golden Shower, and League of Super Freaks?
Michael tried to quickly banish the thought as a drunken pair of men, both warbling How Dry I Am, came stumbling by, throwing their empty bottles to the ground, causing them to shatter.
“Hey Baby Boy, looking for a date?”
Startled by the sudden question, Michael turned and found he was no longer alone.
Standing there, and grinning at him with a mouth full of chipping gold teeth was a hooker. 
And looking at her was causing Michael’s stomach to turn.
The woman was skinny, like she hadn’t eaten in several weeks, and her poor, malnourished body was just barely covered in a dingy blue dress, that dipped low in the front and was high in the hemline.
The look might have been sexy, had the woman had a body. But since she was built like a ten year old boy, the effect was completely lost. Not to mention all the scars and pockmarks covering her body.
She looked like she had been through ‘Nam. And lost.
Plus the little bit of hair on her head was moving.
“No…no thank you. I’m fine. Bye!” Michael gasped, scared and was running away quickly a few other prostitutes shouting catcalls and whistling after him.
“I bet you’re gay anyway!” The dejected hooker yelled after him angrily.
After he had ran for about a block, Michael stopped and was crazily scratching at his scalp thinking he was now dripping with lice just after talking to that woman.
Feeling hopeless, Michael looked around at his surroundings.
He was in front of an adult bookshop--how the hell did his brothers even know places like this existed?--and still alone.
None of the women he saw looked like anything he’d dream of touching, all beat up, and scarred looking. Walking cases of VD probably. All in all, he just felt sorry and pitied these women.
Downtrodden, he lowered his head and was kicking after the extinguished cigarette butts on the glass littered sidewalk.
“You look lonesome Honey…want a friend?”
A soft, sultry voice cooed and caught Michael’s attention.
Head bobbing up, Michael had never noticed the streetwalker standing on side of the building, smoking a cigarette.
Michael put his hand to his throat, taken aback by the woman’s appearance.
After seeing a dozen dames who looked like they’d been dragged a mile on their faces, this woman was nothing like them.
She was…beautiful.
She was very tall and slender, with pale, smooth skin, ringlets of long black hair and almond shaped, honey colored eyes. Her body was clad attractively in a gold camisole, that dipped in the front, displaying her ample cleavage, and a pair of red spandex pants hugged every curve on her lower body.
She was heavily made up, but still alluring. Not tacky in any way.
The woman looked young, close to Michael’s age, if she was even twenty.
Drawn, almost entranced by the pretty streetwalker, Michael found himself approaching her.
She was so pretty, her pouted lips curling around her cigarette as she took another puff. And she smelled nicely too. Her cigarette smelled of vanilla and her body, of peppermints.
She did appear “clean”.
“Hi…” He said nervously. “Um…how much?”
The woman paused to blow a smoke ring in the air, and chuckled,
“Slow down, Speed Demon. We’ve got all night. I’m Aura.”
“Hi Aura…I’m Michael.” He introduced himself.
Shaking ashes from her ciggy, Aura wondered,
“Now what exactly do you want. A straight is seventy-five--”
“I don’t want to…you know…” Michael, suddenly embarrassed discussing such matters stammered.
“Baby, I’m not selling Girl Scout cookies out here…” Aura tittered, and finishing her cancer stick, tossed it to the ground, mashing it under the spiked heel of her gold stiletto.
“I know…you see…” Michael was still stuttering. “You don’t have to do anything with me. Just sit with me and talk to me for a while. Keep me company. Please I have a hundred dollars. You can have it. Just, let’s sit somewhere.” (He reserved the last fifty for the hotel room…was he really doing this?)
He managed, and grasped Aura’s cool, smooth hand in his.
Aura looked Michael up and down, seeming to contemplate the idea of just sitting with a “client”.
“Well you don’t look very much like Jack the Ripper.” She giggled seductively and was placing her arm through Michael’s.
“I know a place about two blocks from here. We can sit and…talk there.”
It was a silent walk as Michael and Aura made their way to a run down tenement, The Philips Hotel.
As they got to the door, Aura hung back.
“You get the room, Michael. If the man that owns the place sees me before you get it, he might not let you have it. He doesn’t like tramps.” She warned.
Leaving Aura at the door, Michael apprehensively entered the battered lobby of the hotel.
Seated behind the counter, and deep into a set of racing forms, Juan Garcia, a thick, lumbering man sat, a smoking cigar hanging from his thin lips.
As Michael got to him, he merely barked, in a light Spanish accent.
“How long you stayin’ Amigo?”
“Um, just the night.” Michael remarked, still not really connecting in his mind just what he was doing.
“Twenty dollars--Room 213.”
As soon as Michael got the little key in his hand, Aura was on his arm, and pulling him upstairs.
Michael was kind of emotionally checking out as he and Aura entered the room. 
(Was he really there? With a streetwalker? A hooker? )
The room was horrendous. A bare bulb swinging from the ceiling, a little cot of a bed with bed clothes that needed to be burned.
And was that REALLY a dead rat in the corner?!!!!?
“So, I’m on your dime now.” Aura spoke up and much to Michael’s disgust, she went an sat on the edge of the dirty bed.
“Yeah…” Michael sighed and was shoving his fists into the pockets on his jeans. He remained standing and made a note to throw his shoes away once he got home.
“Well since you wanna talk, Michael…tell me about yourself. What do you do? How old are you? Where you from?” Aura produced another cigarette and lighter out her cleavage, and was smoking.
“I’m twenty-three. From Encino--”
“Encino, classy. I got a little rich boy.” Aura teased and was letting another smoke ring off into the air.
‘Yeah.” Michael nodded, still nervous. Would he ever be calm again?
“I own a dance studio.”
“Really?” Aura spoke, smoke seeping from her mouth. “I wanted to be a dancer--before I got into this racket.”
“How did you end up doing this?” Michael questioned, then added. “If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind. I answered an ad in the paper. I’m from Salina, Kansas. Saw an ad looking for dancers. I thought it was legitimate. Turns out it was in a nudie bar. I didn’t have any money or anything to last on, so I had to take the gig. Then I met this guy…” Aura paused to take another drag off her cancer stick. “Now he’s my pimp.”
“But you’re so pretty.” Michael commented coming over to her and grabbing her hand again. “You seem so nice. You shouldn’t be doing this. No woman should. It’s not a good thing.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.” Aura flicked ashes on the floor. “I don’t like doing this you know. I’m only twenty years old. I know its not a good thing. I’m just trying to survive, man.”
Going over to Aura, and jumping as a large cockroach scampered over his foot, Michael placed his hands on her thin shoulders.
“Do you want to go home? Do you want to go back to Kansas? If you want to, I’ll send you back. I’ll get you a plane ticket or a bus ticket or something for you to go back home.” He offered softly, not able to bear this woman’s pain any longer.
Aura stared up at Michael, her light eyes wide with surprise.
“You--you’d do that for me?” She whispered and Michael was delighted to see tars of joy in her eyes.
“Yes. You seem like a good person, and you need to get away from this…”racket” as you put it.”
“Thank you…my…my people are good people. Hardworking people. Churchgoing. They don’t know I do this.” Aura, ashamed hung her head.
“They don’t need to.” Michael, placing a warm hand under her chin replied. “You just need to go home, and be safe again.”
Aura went to say more, but suddenly stopped.
Her lovely eyes bugged and a choking sound escaped her mouth as it dropped open.
“Aura?” Alarmed, Michael jumped back as the woman dropped her cigarette and placed both hands to her neck choking.
Michael went to grab her, to start the Heimlich maneuver, but stopped when a new sight caught his eyes.
A bright red liquid began spilling from between Aura’s fingers.
Blood.
Fresh, hot blood.
Running through her hands and down onto the cleavage that had lured Michael to her in the first place.
“Oh…oh my God!” Michael put his hands to his mouth backing away, frightened, as Aura began trembling on the bed.
Right before Michael’s eyes, some how more wounds began opening all over her chest and abdomen, blood spilling from them.
“What’s going on! What’s happening! Aura! Help! Help!”
Too shattered to make a break for the door, Michael was instead, backing into a corner and drawing himself up into a scared ball of flesh as Aura stood, staggered and was rocking as if some unseen force was rattling her.
Blood was oozing from her nose and mouth and she was gurgling as she was drowning in her own bodily fluids.
Right before Michael’s widened and flittering eyes, Michael saw that a gash opened on Aura’s abdomen and her insides, her very guts were falling out onto the floor with a sickening splat.
Her intestines were stretched halfway across the room!
“Aaaaaaah!” Michael screamed shrilly and his throat burned from the effort. “What’s happening to you? What’s going on? Help! Help! Somebody! Anybody! Please! She’s dying! She’s dying!”
Covering his face with his hands, Michael was trying to crawl away, get away.
Get help. He needed help.
Needed to get away from this heinous scene unfolding before him.
Something was evil in that room. And it was killing Aura!
It was then he heard a disheartening, loud THUD, right close to his feet.
His curiosity getting the better of him in one moment, Michael uncovered his face, and saw the last thing he wanted to in his lifetime.
There at his feet, was Aura’s severed head, the eyes rolled back, seeing nothing, mouth agape in a scream unheard.
Across the room, her disemboweled body was hanging limply off the edge of the bed, blood staining the sheets and pooling under it.
“DEAR GOD! Help! Help! Help!” Michael shrieked, sobbing uncontrollably before everything went black.
“Help me! Help me! HELP!”

Late the Following Day
Los Angeles Police Department

Officer Carl Withers sat in the break room of the precinct enjoying some half stale donuts and a paper cup of steaming black coffee.
It had been a long day, and all he could think off was punching his time card in a couple of hours and going home to his wife.
“Should have known I’d find you here.” A happy voice remarked and Officer Johnny Ringwald entered the room, pausing to pour himself a cup of java.
“Where else would I be? Trying to boost myself. After going through the ringer with that whack job this morning--” Carl started, and Johnny, sipping his drink put up his hand.
“I wanted to talk to you about that.” Johnny went over and took a seat across the little table from his friend. “I was talking with Chester as I was filling out the paperwork on this. He was right. That Jackson kid was clean. No drugs, no alcohol. The strongest thing in his system was root beer. Apparently the only reason he was in that place at all was cause he lost some bet with his brothers. We still don’t know why he went nuts though.”
“No?” Carl wondered and was eating the last of his donut.
“Well, I think I might have something, but it’s a bit farfetched, mind you.” Johnny sighed deeply and was absently playing with the shiny badge attached to his shirt.
“I was looking into that building where Jackson went crazy. And it seems that in 1978, in the same room he was in, Room 213, a prostitute was murdered in there.”
“No! Really?” Carl, interested was leaning into his friend.
Johnny nodded. “A young girl named Laura Epstein. Went by Aura on the street. Kid from Kansas. The way the case report went, the girl was planning to go back home when her pimp, some low life named Izzy Moreno, got wind of it, and butchered the girl to pieces. Sad, really.”
Seeing where Johnny was going, Carl cleared his throat.
“You don’t mean to tell me you think that Jackson kid was trying to entertain a ghost? Johnny really--” He laughed and offended, Johnny slapped the table top.
“Look, I’m telling you what the hell I see: The kid picked up a hooker. Took her to room 213 where another hooker got brutally killed. The owned of the place said he got the room alone. He didn’t see a woman. And now that Jackson kid is in a padded cell in the mental ward over at Cedars-Sinai. And all he keeps hollering is ‘She’s dying! Blood! Blood!’” What the hell else you want me to think Carl. I know it sounds crazy…” Johnny clasped his hands together an gulped. “You don’t think….”
“That the boy got spooked by the ghost of a pretty streetwalker?” Carl reached and patted the man’s shoulder.
“This is real life…not a horror movie.”
Johnny glared at his friend and remarked,
“That may be, but truth is stranger than fiction!”

THE END

Clark vs. George

Hey Y'all!

A few days ago, I had a very interesting conversation with my friend Lulu. If you read my blogs, you know she's my friend in France with whom I proudly co-president The Marlon Jackson Fan Club.
Anyway, we were chatting and shooting the breeze and somehow I got around to telling her about this new story I'm researching and working on. And I was going through, showing her pictures of people who I had based my character's appearances off of.

One of my characters was based, physically, on one of my favorite actors, Mr. George Brent.
(I wrote a blog a while back, detailing how much I love this man! )

And as Lulu looked at, she said something I did not expect,

"Tiffeny, he looks like that guy from Gone with the Wind".

I instantly said,

"Don't say that!"

She meant actor--and King of the Movies, so they say--Mr. Clark Gable.

It bothered me a bit, because I actually prefer George Brent over Clark Gable. But more than that, by the early 1930s, when George was first starting to tip-toe into Hollywood, he was actually marketed as "The NEXT Clark Gable", as a tall, swarthy, dark haired, blue eyed lover.

Here's Proof: From Photoplay magazine, June 1932



It is begging people not to compare the two actors. But both were quite similar in a way.
Clark Gable was from England and crossed the pond to America in the twenties. George Brent was from Ireland and also came to America in the 1920s.
Believe it or not, George and Clark actually knew each other before Hollywood. Both had played together in a Broadway show.
After the show closed, Clark came to Hollywood and people seemed to salivate over his tea cup-eared self. Some years later when George came along, he was put into all sorts of pictures with big names, like Ruth Chatterton (whom he married), Bette Davis (whom he had an affair with and starred in THIRTEEN  pictures with.), Kay Francis and Ginger Rogers, just to name a few.
But Clark was highly regarded and while after the success of Gone with the Wind, he remained prominent, George drifted into B-movies, and eventually from the public completely.
He married five times and died of emphysema in 1979.

Now I have watched films by both men. I have a copy of Gone with the Wind, with Clark, and Dark Victory with George. Both films came out in 1939. Now in 1938, George acted in a similar film with Bette Davis called Jezebel.

Call it blasphemy, but I would have preferred him over Clark Gable.
George as Buck Cantrell. (Jezebel was shot in Black and White)

Clark Gable as Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind.

I recently read a blog in which a lady basically said aside from a pretty face and decent body, George was emotionless as an actor. I must disagree. I don't see it. But I suppose the cards were stacked against him. He never really was "George". He was a poor man's "Clark". And that's quite unfortunate. Because I think he was much more handsome than Clark.


George with Ruth in Female.


George with Kay in Living on Velvet.

George, Ginger, and Kay, around his throat. I swooned over this! He wasn't muscly but just big and broad and I dig that!

Judge for yourself:



Hot Damn! I see the resemblance. But Clark (right) with those ears kill me every time. I always imagined if a strong breeze hit him, he'd go airborne. I think that's why I like George. Clark's ears actually distracted me as he performed because they jutted out so.
George's laid naturally against his head.

That being said, I have watched a great deal of Clark's film's beyond GWTW. My particular favorite is Red Dust with Jean Harlow and Mary Astor. (20 years later, in the 50s, Clark played the same character in the remake, entitled Mogambo and starring Grace Kelly before she married Prince Rainier and became Princess Grace. )
NO ONE ASK ME HOW I KNOW ALL THIS, I JUST DO!

Clark and Jean--would you believe she was only 21 there?

Clark and Kelly--20 years later.

Okay I said all that to say this. I respect both of the men as actors. But while I like Clark simply as an actor, I was attracted to George. Anytime now on TCM when I hear mention of a George in a film, I literally will NOT move and have to see him!

And I just wanted to speak on the topic since I am a novice classic film buff.

(With the exception of Living in Velvet, I've watched every film I've mentioned in this post.)

I ALMOST GOT KILLED TODAY!

It's a rare thing that for me to make a second post to my blog in one day, but I just cannot ignore the chain of events that unfolded today and completely fucked me over.

I ALMOST GOT KILLED TODAY!

Now in order to get to the place where I saw the pitiful flashes of that I called my life going before my eyes, let's start at the beginning.
I rose at 8:30 this morning, as I do every dialysis day. So, I got up, got dressed, put on my face and rode out in the car to Jack in the Box with my dad. (With the way dialysis depletes me, I need someone to drive me back and forth)
I was short on funds, so instead of getting the sausage croissant I like, I got the breakfast jack. I wanted coffee with my jack. It was 9:30 in the morning. I don't think it was a farfetched request.
There was NO coffee ready. All they had was decaf and I'd sooner drink dishwater. So I had to stand around 15 minutes for my damn coffee. In the meantime, my sandwich got cold, but I ate it anyway.

I went to dialysis. And I pulled up at exactly 10 am. My on-time is 10:45 am. There's this man ahead of me named "Q". (Yeah, I'm named damn names!) And that bastard is a catastrophe coming and going. My dialysis access is in my left arm, and in general the dialysis machine is to the right of the person. Q makes them move the machine around to the left. This fucks me over, because they have TV's for the patients. With the machine in the way, I cannot . And you can't simply unplug, move and re-plug the machine. The machine would have to boot up and do all these tests again and it would take near on 30 minutes to do. So the nurses leave it as is. Then once he's done, you'd think Q would get the hell on. No, he wants to get up and walk around and socialize. Especially because he used to sleep with one of the nurses once upon a time...And he leaves all his shit in the chair, so the nurse can't clean the chair and ready it for me. 10:45 came and went, and at 11 I went out and  complained to my dad--who sits and waits in case something happens to me--to take me home.
I stayed.

It was around 11:15 before I got on. You'd think it would be fine from there. Three hours and one treatment later, I'm starting to have my blood returned to me--it circulates and cleans through the machine--one of the tubes refuses to send the blood back. Apparently there was an infiltration. and what an infiltration is, is when the needle pokes through the vein/vessel and blood leaks out into the tissues instead of through the vein/vessel. Oh, AND IT HURTS LIKE ALL GODDAMNED, PUS-SPEWING HELL! So I'm writhing in pain and finally get out of there.

I was hungry. A little tiny breakfast jack isn't enough to fill a child. I'm a woman. So a block down from the dialysis facility is a Chinese place. I like the lo mein. I went in and ordered food for me and dad. As I'm waiting, it begins to sprinkle. In the mean time, some fool gave my order to another customer and had to run him down to get it back. Thank God he didn't start eating it.
I get the food, and Dad is starting to drive us home.

The closer we get to the house, the worse the rain gets. It was so bad, all I could see was sheets of water. All Dad could see was sheets of water. Half the time, I didn't know what lane we were in or what side of the street we were on. IT WAS THAT EFFING BAD!
About a block from home, the car went over into the far lane and we literally came within inches of a collision. I was so scared, I was screaming, he was cussing.
My life was flashing before my eyes---there was ALOT of Michael Jackson--and I was scared to death. It was by the grace of God we got home in one piece. I was shaking, I got drenched trying to get in the house. It was a mess.

I wish I had stayed home in the bed under the covers!

New Horror For October....

 

 

 

BOO!

Hey Guys and Ghouls,

Well, it's that time of year again. It is officially October and you all know what means: Halloween is just around the corner! And the last few weeks, I have been putting down ideas for various MJ horror stories in preparation for it. I hope to write 3 to 4 new horror stories and have them up not only on my blog but also at the MJJUltimate fan forum.

Halloween is coming and let's not forget to add the Thriller to it. I want to touch on several different eras with MJ. Unlike my eroticas where I have to have Michael as an adult, with my horror stories, it's much looser, and I can have him as a child. In fact, a story I'm working on--I'm about 4 pages into it--concerns a very young Michael Jackson. I'm not going to disclose what he's going to do or what's going to happen to him because I'm not the type to spoil my stories ahead of time.

But I can guarantee this: Your electric bill might go up--you will sleep with the lights on! LOL.

Attaining the Feminine Mystique--PART ONE

Hey Y’all!

First of all, I want to thank everyone for the kind response I received after my previous post “A Return to Femininity”. It was not the kind of response I expected because I assumed people would find my form of nostalgia outmoded and old-fashioned. Just the opposite: it was embraced and praised.

And a friend of mine suggested that I divulge some of the “secrets” of days gone by that could be utilized to make a woman more “feminine”.

I will tell you, I’ve gone through over two thousand pages of old magazines, scouring everything from “help me” columns, to diet ads to extract and squeeze what I could decide to be used for the modern woman of 2013, though the base I used was suggested over eighty years ago.

And I will actually do this by sharing which tips I applied to MYSELF.

In this post I will supply three of several points that help towards the goal of the Feminine Mystique.


1) FIGURE.

Well, y’all, some things never change. Unfortunately, even the oldest magazine that I have in my possession, from July 1926, has ads in it for diets, and diet supplements, and even diet soap. You have to take it as this: Men and women appreciate a nice beautiful body. The only difference between now and 80 years ago, is that the definition of a “beautiful” body has changed quite dramatically. 80 years ago, in 1933, one of the most beautiful bodies belonged to an actress named Jean Harlow, whom, until her untimely death at the age of 26 in 1937, reigned as the first real female “sex symbol” of Hollywood. And Jean was known for her particularly curvy, soft, and voluptuous body. The “Skinny Minnie” woman of today was seen as blatantly unattractive. No woman wanted to be caught dead as a stick with hair. Really, does a man really want to hug and touch skin and bones? NO. He wants to touch boobies and booty and enjoy it. (That’s if he’s got a decent brain working in his skull, and other parts working in his pants.)


(Jean in a swimsuit. As you can see, she girl had a "real" body! She actually got plumper as her career progressed)

On the same note, no woman wanted to be entirely overweight either. We now know the health complications from too much of a good thing. Diabetes, hypertension, heart disease, et cetera. In my previous post, I stated the amazing menu in which a woman could lose weight.

I did see two or three articles aimed at what “Photoplay” magazine’s health guru Sylvia called “Skinnies” (she unfortunately called the fat women “Fatties”!) and according to Sylvia, it was suggested that skinny women were nervous creatures who needed to eat properly, sleep, and have a moderate amount of exercise.

(Just a side note, I don’t believe that. When I was tipping scales at 260 pounds, I was just as keyed up then as I am now at 165--I lost five pounds I discovered at a recent doctor’s visit!!!)

But this is what was prescribed to the Skinny trying to put on “Firm Flesh”.

There was no eating of candy and crap and pizza and fast food. In 1933, McDonald’s did NOT exist! And there was exercise prescribed.

Most of the exercises she prescribed were designed to build up the bust, arms and shoulders. Such as doing the breaststroke swim move to enlarge the breasts. (I’m doing this, if it works, I’ll reveal in the future.) also the rest of the body. It was not to just be slender, but curvy. And LOOK like a woman.

This is to GAIN weight so if you’re trying to take off poundage, do NOT do this!

General Building Up Diet:

~~Breakfast~~

Big glass of orange or grape fruit juice.

Twenty minutes later

Dish of hominy with ripe sliced bananas and certified milk and sugar.

Coffee or tea with sugar and cream.

Toast with plenty of butter and jam.

(Two hours before lunch, drink a big glass of tomato juice if possible)

((Author’s Note: To be honest, most days I do NOT eat breakfast. I tend to eat sparingly, which would make Sylvia sit up and howl, I’m sure, as she stressed plenty of nutritious, healthy foods))

~~Luncheon~~

Bowl of thick soup.

(Cream of mushroom or Cream of tomato or Cream of celery or Thick vegetable soup or Chicken okra with rice or noodles.)

Green salad and often half an avocado.

Spaghetti (with butter — allowed to melt after the food is off the fire).

Egg noodles (with butter).

Chocolate or rice or bread pudding or Cup custard or Stewed fruits with cream.

Bottle of certified milk. (In the middle of the afternoon a glass of

milk.)

~~Dinner~~

Fruit cocktail.

Soup (cream or clear).

Any sort of meat that is broiled or roasted, and gravy; but skim off the fat—it's hard to digest.

Two vegetables (creamed or with butter, and put the butter on after the vegetables are done. Use plenty).

Glass of milk

Cup custard or Ice Cream or Pudding.

(Beware of pies unless you are sure you can digest them.)

Sylvia also prescribes plenty of sleep.



((Author’s Note: Now to tell the truth, Sylvia would probably make millions off of me because I eat like a hummingbird and I just don’t sleep like a normal human being. I wake 6-7 times every night and drink coffee by the gallon.))


But 80 years ago, there was a fixation on a youthful, healthy appearance. Bright eyes, glowing skin, shiny hair. Not this half-starved, looked like you just escaped from a concentration camp sort of look that rules the roost now. I know I will NEVER be a stick. I come from big, stocky people. It just ain’t in my DNA to be a stick.

But I do try to keep my figure lines pleasant. I don’t want to look so fragile a man is scared to touch me for fear something will break.

And once you get that figure--I realize it is harder for some than others, based on genetics and things of the sort--you’ll want to show off the results.

That leads me to my next point.


2) MAKEUP

In the 1930s, it was made out that every woman, unless she was Amish, wore some form of make up to accent her features. And today, that hasn’t changed a particle. Women still use cosmetics to accent what God gave them and hide what they don‘t like that was given to them,. LOL.

I am a particular stickler for my make up. I simply will not leave my house unless my “face” is on just right. It’s just a part of my personality that is there. That is literally the first thing I do in the morning, grab a cup of coffee for breakfast, clean up and stumble to my make up. And in the 30s, make up was advertised as helping women bring out and show off their “charm” and “allure”. in a culture that emphasized getting a man and marrying him, looking your best to hook that man was essential.

It does something to me when I see a pretty woman with nothing on to enhance herself. Now I know every woman can’t do it. Some might have a house full of babies to tend to or can’t afford it. That’s fine, and I respect those circumstances. But if a woman CAN afford it and has the time, by all means, do it damn it!

I make up my face and my products were all bought at Walgreens and on the CHEAP.

I’ll tell the truth, what I use on my face daily is this:

Eye shadow primer: 9.00

Face powder 9.00

Eye shadow from palate of 100, 10.00

Bronzer 8.00 (I use very little of this and so it lasts.)

Blush 6.00 (I use so little it’s lasted me a YEAR)

Liquid lipstick 3.00

Eyeliner 1.00

Mascara 7.00

All of that for a grand total of 53 dollars! And I did not buy it all at once. The most expensive thing in my make up arsenal is a large brush I bought for 21 dollars to apply the bronzer.

And depending on what I do, I am done in less than 30 minutes tops--and that’s if I’m going out to an important event too!

Now like I say, every woman may not be out to attract a man (or a woman if that’s the way you swing) but, I think its nice when a person gets complimented on their appearance or hit on. I don’t care who you are or THINK you are, you puff up a bit if someone says “Gosh, you look nice.” or “Hey, you’re pretty.”

I do.

And I’ve had some people complain that they don’t know how to put on make up or keep it on or what colors to use.

You got two options baby, run over a make up counter in the mall and get instruction from a trained beauty specialist, or do like I did: Trial and Error.

You’re looking at a girl who tried to wear a frosted red lipstick, never again.

I do have a background in beauty pageants, but I did not get proper instruction on how to apply my face. It was impossible to, when you’re up at 6 AM in a room crowded with a dozen other girls in robes and curlers waiting for her turn to be made up.

Most often all the woman would ask what color my dress or costume was and a coordinating shade went on my face and I was dragged away by my mother to get put into my dress. Most often my dress was white and I’d have silver eye shadow.

That’s it. Sometimes a lady who made me up would have twenty other girls to do. It wasn’t time for a consultation.

The point is no matter how “ugly” a girl may think she is, she has something to her face that can be made a focal point. Her eyes her cheeks, her lips.

Something. Sure some chicks are prettier. Some are “uglier” that’s what makes the world go around.

Some people whine they want men to talk to them, be attracted to them. Well, hell give them something to look out. Give them something to say, “Wow, dig that girl, let me holler at her.”

I’m sorry, men are basic creatures. They’re like magpies, if something is sparkly, it catches their attention.

I’m not saying spackle it on like Bozo the clown but accentuate what God gave you. He gave it to you for a reason! You have to try. It’s not something that comes easily. It takes practice. It took me a long while to find a groove for what looked well and nice on me. I still can’t apply lipstick properly! It varies from woman to the next what works on her.

I’m brown skinned with black hair and brown eyes. What works for me will NOT work for my friend Stacie who is medium skinned, with hazel eyes and (last times I checked) blonde hair. What works for her will NOT work for my friend Lulu, who is fair skinned with dark brown hair and green eyes.

To each her own. Within each hair/skin/eye color combo, there is a bit of wiggle room. My friend Ebonie is brown skinned--lighter than me, but darker than Stacie--with dark eyes and dark hair. What works on me might not work on her.

You have to figure it out.

That leads me to my third point of this post.


3) COLORS
Brace yourselves kids…this is another of those Trial and Error type things. Women, unless they are in a nudist colony, cannot walk around naked. Men would like it, but it’s just not so. And before you go digging in that damn closet, consider the coloring of your clothing. Does it compliment your complexion? Does it add to your looks? Does it bring color into your face or accent it? Consider this. Your clothing should do more than just cover your ass or show off your figure. It does nothing, if your clothes have good lines, but the color disagrees with your complexion. It’s like tying two cats together by their tails: it’s a disaster.

This is actually something I learned in my pageant experience. The wrong color of a costume, I’ve seen, can cost a girl her crown. And in normal life, it can make or break an outfit.

The safe bets for girls in pageants were a white dress. If you were a white girl, it accented your tan, hair and eye color, if you were black, or some other form of “color” it showed off your color. Pink is popular, as long as it agreed with a complexion.

For instance the same baby pink dress you’d put on a fair, blonde, blue eyed child, would not work for the olive skinned, dark child. And vice versa.

There is a wide variety of color and within that, is much room for error. I don’t care how attractive the color of a garment is, slip it on your body and see if it works for you. I once saw a beautiful mint green leather jacket in the mall. It was gorgeous with silver studding all over it. I had to have it. I grabbed it and ran to the dressing room with it. I slipped it on and gagged.

I looked like Shrek. It was terrible. It sucked all the color out of my skin, and was just a disaster. I threw it back on the rack. Had it been darker, a Kelly or Hunter green, it would have worked on my complexion. Now my friend Lulu, who is paler, would have looked like a damn rock star in that jacket! And with her green eyes… she’d have shut it down.

But it wasn’t a mistake I could risk, especially not for 160 dollars! LOL.

There are some colors though, that when applied correctly, do work universally:

(Neutrals)

Grey

Black

Brown

Taupe/Tan

White

(Semi-Neutrals)

Army/Dark Green

Navy Blue

Burgundy/Maroon

And in the color, pay attention to the intensity. Generally, I think of this: the darker a woman, the more intensity she can use in her clothing.

Let’s take me and my friend Lulu again.

We love The Jacksons, and run a club for Marlon. Let’s say, for instance, we both want to attend a Jacksons show and decide to coordinate in blue dresses.

I’d pick something along the lines of a navy or cobalt blue. Lulu can take a Baby or French Blue, which is much lighter. (Lulu is actually French, so she might find that French Blue working for her complexion hilarious.) But since Lulu has particularly dark hair, the navy or cobalt, in the right saturation would work for her. Too dark and it may age her and she’s very young.

And don’t think this color thing is only a woe for a woman. Men have to be picky about their colors, too.

I used to admire Michael Jackson for his clothing choices. As his skin grew progressively lighter, he would wear bold, saturated colors. Even his black clothes were rich, which he could carry well, though he was extremely fair, but had very black hair and brows and at times, black facial hair.

I usually agreed and loved everything he tossed on.

One choice that still bothers to this day, I never understood, was he visited some place and wore a light, pale, baby blue and black jacket. I wanted to crawl out of my skin when I saw him. The blue was a mess and brought an odd, yellow cast to Michael. He looked like a lemon in it, he was so sallow. The was nothing different. He was the same. Same hair, same complexion, same make up, just the color of the jacket clashed with his skin. I didn’t see HIM, I saw what the jacket was doing to him and wanted to yank it off his slim ass and burn it.

When he stopped wearing it--he made 2 or 3 appearances in it--I was happy.

Ladies, please consider and try different colors. Have fun with it. The whole point of is this for you to enjoy yourself and explore and bring out the best YOU there is. If you do make a mistake, it’s not the end of the world. No one is perfect.

One word of advice, though. If you do drastically change your hair color-- more than two shades in either direction--it will impact your clothing AND make up choices.

Also if you were tanner in warmer months and pale out in cooler ones, consider your choices again.

I bring this post to a close with one word of advice. Remember, if you do decide to make yourself over--as I am in the process of doing--make sure that everything you do, be it change your hairstyle, make up or clothing, the most important person who has to like it is YOU. You have to wear what you buy and what you do to yourself. If YOU don’t like it, YOU will be miserable. (And anything else that comes along, a date, a fiancé, a spouse, compliments, et, cetera, are all gravy on top.)

My next post will highlight more points of attaining the Feminine Mystique.

A Return to Femininity

Hey Y’all,

I believe for the greater part of my life, if not all of it, I have lived in a bit of a time warp. I seemed to have always been a generation or so behind my contemporaries. I am 27 years old, which I am not the least bit ashamed to admit, and was born in 1986. But from the moment I came into the world, I was thrown back at least twenty years. I have very vivid memories from the earliest years of my life, of sitting on the floor in my mother’s bedroom, eating Cheerios right out the box and watching such television shows as “Batman”, “Get Smart”, “The Beverly Hillbillies”, “Bewitched” and “Gilligan’s Island”, all popular shows from the 1960s. I even watched “Dennis the Menace” which was filmed in the 1950s! I am the children of older parents. My father was 59 at the time of my birth and my mother was 35. My father was “Mr. Mom” as my mother was the “working stiff” in the family. And as a kid I naturally watched what my father watched, which was the likes of Charlie Chaplin, The Three Stooges and Laurel and Hardy.

And to this day, I know I have interests that are extremely and vastly varied from my peer group. I don’t have much care for anything to do with popular culture now, outside of that tiny Hispanic Pixie, Bruno Mars, who is quite cute. I rarely pay attention. I am more comfortable with old classic films, and actually schedule my month around the film schedule of Turner Classic Movies. (TCM).

I have always been fascinated by old films. Just the other night, TCM showed one of my favorite silent films--a German masterpiece called “Metropolis”. I was as excited for this film as my friends would have been about the new Tyler Perry movie.

I generally watch movies from the silent era to the 1980s--skipping the 1970s altogether. For a long time, I wasn’t quite sure what exactly drew me to films by the likes of Bette Davis, Barbara Stanwyck, and Joan Crawford.

It’s practically taken me a lifetime to figure out why and just recently my mind got the memo.

About a week ago, I discovered a fantastic website that scans of hundreds of old magazines, and I began reading my favorite--a very popular film/movie magazine called “Photoplay” that was at it’s height during the 20-50s. Never have I been happier than when I started to read this magazine. It covered the stars I held dear to my heart as their careers began, crested, and sadly, declined.


July 1926 cover with Dorothy Mackail!

In downloading the reading the first books--I pulled the latter issues from the year 1931--it dawned on me why I liked that era so much.

Ladies were ladies.

Not to say women aren’t ladies now, but it was very much apparent back in the 1930s. “Photoplay” was marketed to a mostly female clientele and in between articles on what Clark Gable did on vacation and what color Jean Harlow has dyed her hair, were numerous ads for hair, skin and makeup products, far more than you see in a magazine now. And they were arranged as articles, not just “Buy This Now!”

There were articles on not just dieting for plump and fat women, but body-building, weight-gaining meals for skinny girls. Can you imagine in this day and age an article about GAINING weight?

An underweight girl writing in for advice got this response:


Bessie: You are considerably underweight for you height. I think if you tried to gain weight, for a while, you would discover your whole figure will become more perfectly developed. Try eating fattening foods (!) drink milk and cream several times a day and get plenty of rest.
Every article I see now tells people to move, do this exercise, try this new piece of equipment. The only time a doctor advised me to relax is when I suffered heat exhaustion one day.

And this was advised as a “Dinner” for a woman trying to LOSE weight:


One Slice Cold Roast Lamb

Twp Heaping Tablespoons of Squash

Mint Sauce

One Tablespoon Green Peas

Medium Sized Tomato Salad

Mineral Oil or Vinegar

Two Small Biscuits

Half a Cantaloupe

One Glass of Skimmed Milk

How many women now would rather leap from the Empire State Building than do THAT?



(Just for the record, I don’t eat that much food in a DAY!)

((Although for the month of September I am adopting what I call the “Bette Davis Breakfast” which I read about her eating in 1932, regularly: It’s a cup of black coffee and a slice of raisin bread. I sweeten my coffee though. It’s just to prep for Fall and get the pesky five pounds I want to lose OFF. ))


Everything was aimed at making women dainty, and beautiful and helping them with catching a husband.

Do women nowadays even want to catch husbands?

To make the best of their curves. To HAVE curves rather than be moving sticks.

“Photoplay” even had a columnist who would tell girls what colors suited their hair, skin, and eye color the best. Even though, in 1931, it was targeted almost exclusively to white women, I could pull and take little bits for myself as a black woman. (They considered a “brunette” in those days to be a white woman with olive skin, black hair and brown eyes. My skin is just darker than olive. )

You just don’t see articles like that anymore. Telling women how to look their best, how to style their hair and what colors to wear and how to be popular with men without running out with open legs. How to flirt.

How to find a husband. You see more about how people are divorcing, rather than getting married. Or wanting to get married. It appeals to the old-fashioned woman in me I suppose. I would like to get married and be a mother to one or two kids. I would like to be pretty and have my husband happy to look at me and think he has a lovely little wife.

I don’t think I am a superficial person, its just in this day and age it does kind of bother me when I see some women who go out looking like what the cat dragged in and not seeming to care.

A woman doesn’t have to be decked out like she’s en route to a red carpet event, but I actually have moments when I look at other ladies and think, “My, what wonders a dab of lipstick would do for her” or “If only her clothes fit more properly.”

Perhaps women’s lib destroyed that bit of femininity in some women, I don’t know.

But I just like to try to accent my appearance as much as possible. Maybe it came from my younger years when I was fat and ugly and teased mercilessly over it. Maybe it is a way of ensuring I’m not teased, even as an adult. I don’t know, but I pause to take the time to do my make up, even if its for a run to the grocery store in jeans and a tee.

I’d rather have a man say “Hi Pretty Lady” instead of “Hey Lard-Ass” any day.

Is it such an awful thing to want one boyfriend, to want to know how to attract one and hold him with charm, rather than flopping through a line of nobodies? (And it would help if he had large, sumptuous lips like Marlon Jackson.) To attract some bumble bees, you gotta sprinkle on the honey.

What man wants an ugly woman, a woman who appears unkempt, and doesn’t look to care for herself?

I look away from men with saggy trousers, with their boxers peeking out, clean on a good day, with nappy kinky hair all over.

I don’t think I’m being a snob, but if I go hungry half the day and lose around 45 minutes of sleep a day to look good, my man should look halfway decent himself.

As terribly as I hate dialysis, I have my “face” on for it. Once I had to be there at 3 am. At 3 am before the cocks crowed, I was made up and waiting my turn.

I try to ignore the fact I am “ill” and try not to look “ill” by any means.

I don’t hate my appearance now, as some people would cry I put on makeup to hide myself. I am comfortably 165 pounds, down from 260 at my fattest. (And dieting off and on within a given month to maintain/lose.)

Without make up, I have my late mother’s face. And I think my late mother was a beautiful woman. (But every girl probably thinks her mother was beautiful) I will admit that, as I wore glasses from the time I was in the 3^rd grade, I do have dark circles under my eyes. It’s a “flaw” I hide with a swipe of concealer each day.

Every so often I get compliments on my appearance, and it’s nice. And I see other women and wonder if they get compliments, would like to get them. It’s a kind boost to the mind and system.

But the most important thing, is I feel better about myself. I think I’m so drawn to the ladies of the bygone era because they looked like ladies. Sure they had a team of Max Factor stylists riding their asses, but I have seen pictures from that era of “normal” women, who worked normal jobs and had had normal families. They weren’t stars in any sense, were not rich and did housework themselves. And they still had their hair, nails and make up on, looking every bit as feminine as any Hollywood manufactured star.

Perhaps I’m backwards or a liability to women’s lib, but I want to be pretty. Does it really make a woman stupid if she powders her nose, applies lipstick and blush? I don’t think so.

I’m still as intelligent in jammies and Pond’s face cream, as I am with my face on.

I wish that there could be a return to femininity. There is a difference between being “feminine” and being “hot”.

I noticed all of the old ads used wording like “beautiful”, “alluring”, “dainty” , “enchanting” and “lady-like”.

There wasn’t a hot or sexy anywhere. Even at the mention of Jean Harlow and that woman was “sex” personified. (She was married and divorce twice before dying at the age of 26! And I can’t even get a damn date!)

Feminine is the kind of respectable woman that can be taken home to Mother. Not a woman who seems to only romp in the backseats of cars.

I don’t see that kind of respectability anymore. It makes me sad, because if I miss it now in 2013, what can I possibly say one day to my future daughter if it’s completely gone 5, 10 or 20 years from now?

It’s not backwards to be feminine, it’s more of…a privilege to a woman, I think. To take pride in herself and make what God gave them look its best. I think it shows a lady cares for herself.

And she has to care for herself, before anyone else will.

I just wanted to mention that, and I hope it makes some kind of modicum of sense.


(I like these old magazines immensely and may write more about them as I read through them. I’ve only loaded the latter half of 1926, all of 1927, and the latter half of 1932, as I particularly like films from those years. I‘ll load more soon, or as many was my USB flash drive will allow.)

The Legend of Annie Bagans--MJ Horror Story!

If there’s one thing I like, it a good, old-fashioned ghost story. As I a kid, I loved hearing stories that were so frightening, I’d have to sleep a few nights with the lights on1 But that was the idea that kept me coming back for more--that the stories were simply that: stories. For a couple of teens, a story will be more than just a few words of folklore.

“The Legend of Annie Bagans”

A Michael Jackson Horror Story By:

MJsLoveSlave

Rose Hill, Indiana

Summer, 1972

As dusk begins to turn the sky overhead from a crisp, bright blue to shades that are a mix of dark pink and brownish-purple, a young boy, standing near a light post at a street corner, fidgets impatiently.

It’s quite obvious to anyone pausing to pay him even a particle of attention, that this young boy, barely into his teens, is going on a date. Perhaps his very first.

The boy, tall, and gangly, is dressed casually, yet impeccably, in a red silk oxford, a few of the top buttons loosened to showcase the genuine shark’s tooth suspended from a thin gold chain around his long throat, paired with slim fitting, light-rinsed flared jeans, and on his feet, shining, brand-new red leather platform shoes.

His hair, in a rather large, perfectly picked and round afro, bobs as he shifts from one foot to the next--his feet still haven’t quite become accustomed to teetering around in four-inch heels that were the height of fashion.

Clutched in his long hands, is a single, fully-bloomed, white rose.

Absently, he begins to pace back and forth, a few steps here and there, glancing at the Batman watch on his wrist every so often.

Each time a car passes, he stops abruptly, staring, as though he has never seen a vehicle before.

He’s waiting for someone. Someone important.

This could be, perhaps, the most important meeting of his young existence.

“…It’s almost seven o’clock…where is she?”

The boy mumbles to himself, doing his best to resist the urge to scratch his head in thought. He couldn’t wreck his hair; it took him over an hour to get it that big and fluffy. And he used up all of his big brother’s Afro-Sheen to make it shine.

The boy’s dark eyes begin to dip at the corners as a saddening realization hits him.

“Maybe she isn’t coming. Maybe she doesn’t want to be seen with a loser like me. Maybe she found a better, more handsome guy to spend time with…” He ponders, vexed and dejected, holds the rose up, preparing to throw it down and proceed to the bus stop to wait on a ride back home.

“Hi Michael, is that for me?”

A sweet, almost musical voice, in close proximity to the anguished boy inquired and alarmed, he almost fell off of the curb and into the street.

Whirling around, he finds he is no longer alone.

Standing beside him, smiling coyly, is a girl.

A startlingly gorgeous girl, tall, even taller than Michael himself, and slim. Her hair, arranged in loose, black curls cascade over the shoulders of the lilac and white checkered blouse she wears with a matching lilac jumper. The lilac accentuated the queer, grayish-lavender color of her eyes, that were such a stark contrast to her even, cocoa complexion.

A complexion that matched Michael’s perfectly.

Looking up at this creature, dark eyes swelling Michael could only manage,

“H-h-hi Ursula.”

And the hand with the rose was jutted out to the girl.

Giggling, the sound sticking like warm honey in Michael’s ears, Ursula took the rose tucked it behind her right ear.

“It’s so pretty, thank you…” She was coming closer. He could smell her vanilla-scented perfume plainly and it was a delicious aroma wafting off the girl.

“I’m sorry I’m late, my little sister’s babysitter had a flat tire and I had to wait until she came, before I could leave…”

Poor Michael nearly wet himself, when soft, warm lips, sparkling with Ursula’s cherry flavored gloss pecked his cheek.

She kissed him! She kissed him!

Ursula Jenkins, the girl Michael had had a crush on since the second grade had just kissed him!

He was close to swooning as she slipped her arm through his, those pretty eyes of her on him expectantly.

It took a minute for it to connect to Michael that Ursula was waiting on him, now.

“Oh…” He snorted and was trying to maintain his composure.

Arm in arm, the two of them began ambling slowly, destined for the movie theatre about two blocks away.

Ursula ambled, Michael fairly floated he was so happy.

“Do…do you like scary movies?”

His heart immediately sank when Ursula replied,

“Not really…”

Then it soared when she added,

“…but I suppose, I could tolerate it, as long as you’re there to protect me, Michael.”

A goofy grin of unbridled glee came to Michael’s face and his small chest began to swell and poke out with a pride like he had never felt before. She wanted to be protected by him!

“What film is it?” Ursula questioned and for a moment, Michael had actually forgotten what they were going to see, his head was swimming so hard at the prospect that he had the prettiest, most popular girl in the ninth grade on his arm.

He wracked his brain for the title; it didn’t help that those eyes stayed on him and only him as they continued down the sidewalk, with Ursula never breaking her gaze as other boys went by.

Finally, the name came to him!

“It’s called Hitler’s Hell…” Michael trailed off when he felt Ursula coiling some of his hair around one of her fingers, her dark red nails glittering as the streetlamps were coming on.

She was playing in his hair, it was almost too much for him to bear. Ursula was paying attention to him; and seemed interested in what he had to say. He felt like a king!

“And what’s it about? Is it a war movie?” Ursula continued playing in his hair.

More confident than ever, Michael continued to puff up at the sign of affection and responded,

“No, not really. It’s about these historians that are researching Adolf Hitler’s last days in the bunker before he committed suicide with Eva Braun, and as they are digging around Germany, they uncover a mass grave…hundreds of bodies…” He explained as the colored, flashing lights of The Palace theatre were emerging on the horizon.

“…it was where the bodies people who were defectors where thrown, after being slaughtered for their cowardice. And now, with the grave disturbed, it unleashes a bunch of vengeful spirits onto the world. I heard it was banned in Germany, Austria and Switzerland for being too gory. I’m surprised they’re even showing it here in the States…”

Feeling bold, Michael reached out and grabbed Ursula’s tender hand, and was pleased beyond compare when she let him grasp it.

If this kept up, he was going to ask her to be his steady before the night went down!

Going steady with Ursula Jenkins…

Nearing the theatre, where a few dozen kids and teens already stood in line, Michael, with his free hand started fishing in the back pocket of his trousers.

“You don’t need to stand out here, Ursula.” He stated, the pride in him rising yet higher as several boys he knew were gaping in awe as the two of them reached the tail-end of the line.

They were clearly jealous and stewing.

Coming up with a crisp five dollar bill, he handed it to her.

“Go get in the snack line and buy whatever you like, it’s on me…”

He paused and impulsively added,

“Honey-Babe.”

He delighted in the way Ursula’s eyes danced at the term of endearment as she took the money, and turned, leaving him to bask in the glow of what Michael thought might have been love.

Yes, he had to ask her to be his steady!

It was a glow that faded less than a minute later, when Ursula returned, her small mouth puckered and quivering.

“What’s the matter?” Michael wondered as she came back to him, squishing the money into his hand.

He barely heard her whispered answer, but it crushed him just as hard as if the theatre itself had caved and landed on him:

“Hitler’s Hell is sold out.”

Normally, at such an immense letdown, Michael would have burst into tears, but with Ursula by his side, he had to maintain himself. Act like a man and not the downtrodden little boy he was. Though it hurt him badly that he wasn’t going to be able to see the film he had been waiting for almost a year to see, he wasn’t going to let it ruin his date.

He’d have stood up to Hitler himself if he had to, to keep that date going smoothly and that light of happiness in Ursula’s eyes.

Taking a hold of Ursula’s hand again, he suggested,

“Would…would you like an ice cream or something? Sardi’s is right around the corner.”

Squeezing his hand, Ursula sucked in her bottom lip and nodded.

“Come on, let’s go…”

Sardi’s Ice Cream Emporium was relatively deserted, that warm summer’s evening, as Michael and Ursula sat in a booth, near the bay windows in the front, sharing a large banana fudge sundae.

Eating an entire spoonful of hot fudge, Michael’s eyes flickered all over the place, as he tried to come up with something interesting to talk about.

His eyes washed all over the pink and light blue neon interior of the eatery, at the lone soda jerk wiping down the counter and helping himself to all the maraschino cherries he could fit in his mouth, to the jukebox that was playing a disco instrumental.

No, there was nothing there that would spark an indulging conversation.

He glanced at Ursula, she was nibbling at a slice of banana.

They hadn’t spoken one word since they had sat down! If this continued, he feared Ursula was going to think he was a dud and never want to go out with him again.

And it had taken Michael weeks to work up the nerve to ask her out in the first place!

Starting to cry on the inside, Michael desperately scanned all over for something, anything to loosen his jaw for him.

That’s when something caught Michael’s eye, and it wasn’t his girlfriend-to-be’s pretty face.

Through the window of Sardi’s, he observed, perched on a hill in the distance, the jagged, inky outline of Saint Mary’s church.

A few seconds passed, with Michael staring at the old, abandoned cathedral. He had heard a story about that place, a story that would at least get a conversation to rolling with Ursula again.

He peeked at the girl; she was slowly eating all of the banana slices in the sundae, her spoon still sticking out of her half of the ice cream.

Before he could stop himself, his mouth had flown open.

“Hey Ursula…” He called to her, and his heart skipped as those eyes focused on him. “…do you know what happened up there at Saint Mary’s Cathedral?”

Another slice of fruit disappeared and her hair swayed as Ursula shook her head.

Feigning shock, Michael leaned back against the seat of the booth, the vinyl squeaking beneath him, and said,

“You mean, you’ve never heard The Legend of Annie Bagans?”

“No…what happened?” Ursula plucked the cherry from the top of the sundae and popped it into her mouth.

Pleased that he had an audience, Michael began to recall the tale.

“Well, I heard this story from my brother Marlon…he told it to me and one night. He swears it’s true…”

Michael stopped and grinned stupidly as Ursula took a hold of his hand again.

“Annie Bagans was the only youngest child and only daughter born to Archibald Bagans, who used to be the richest man here in Rose Hill. He made his millions in the steel mills of Gary, about twenty miles from here. Before Annie came along, it was a family of boys--five boys: Archie, Jr., Arnold, Arliss, Arthur and Aaron. For the most part, the Bagans children lived a charmed life. They had expensive vacations to Europe each year, attended an elite private boarding school in Indianapolis…were members of the Rose Hill Country Club. Pillars of society here in town…”

Michael paused to eat more ice cream, Ursula’s eyes boring holes into him.

…In 1939, Annie turned sixteen and had the biggest coming-out party the town had ever seen. It was said to be a big Southern Ball, because that movie Gone with the Wind had just come out and everyone was nuts about it. It was a huge costume party and hundred of people attended. At her party, Annie met a young man, named Carl Bradley, who came from a wealthy family from Indianapolis and soon the two fell in love…”

Michael felt Ursula squeeze his hand at the mention of the word “love” and almost choked on his ice cream.

“…Both the Bagans and the Bradleys were pleased by this match and hoped that one day the two would marry and merge the families vast fortunes. They courted for two years and finally on Annie’s eighteenth birthday, October 7, 1941, Carl proposed. Exactly 2 months later on December 7, Pearl Harbor in Hawaii was bombed and the USA entered into World War Two against Germany and Japan.

Immediately after the attack, all of the Bagans boys and Carl Bradley signed up and joined the army to fight for their country.

In early 1942, they were all set to be shipped off. All the Bagans boys, though, in different companies, were going to some of the same places. Archie, Jr. and Arliss were going straight to Nuremberg, Germany, where the Nazi rallies used to be held and was the heart’s blood of the Nazi movement. Arthur, Arnold and Aaron were stationed in Berlin, with Carl being sent off to England.

Before he left, Carl promised Annie that on his very first furlough, they would marry…Carl left in February of 1942.

Annie did her part, participating in a local hospital tending to the ill and wounded who returned from the front.

In those first few months, the Bagans family suffered several tragedies.

Arnold, was shot and killed by a German sniper his third day on duty and both Arliss and Archie, though in different companies, contracted scarlet fever and died within a week of each other…”

Michael was interrupted by Ursula gasping,

“That’s just terrible! Three brothers lost like that!”

“I know, isn’t it just the pits?” Michael questioned, not really caring, just happy that his words were affecting his date.

“…In a world of horror, with their family falling apart and planning funerals left and right, a glimmer of hope and happiness came to them.

Annie and Carl wrote almost every day, and after about a month, Carl wrote that he would be coming home on August fifteenth.

After so much sadness, the Bagans threw themselves into preparing for Annie’s wedding. The whole town, with so many people losing loved ones and suffering so all turned in to help with this joyous occasion. The bakery worked around the clock with the preparing of the wedding cake, and local seamstresses worked shifts making a gown from rationed white satin for the bride.

The idea was that as soon as Carl stepped off the train in Indianapolis, he would be driven into town for his wedding.

The wedding was to be held in the Saint Mary’s Church, the church the Bagans all belonged to and worshipped at.

Everyone in town filed in for the festivities, many more from nearby cities and as the bride was primping with her mother and mother-in-law-to-be, Mr. Bagans drove into Indianapolis to pick up Carl. His future son-in-law…”

“…Over a hundred soldiers were at the train station and as Mr. Bagans swarmed through, looking and calling for Carl, someone grabbed his arm. It was his youngest son, Aaron!

Pleased beyond compare that one of his remaining sons was going to see his sister married, Mr. Bagans hugged the young man and laughed.

The happy reunion did not last for long.

As they hugged, an officer came up to them and asked if he was Mr. Archibald Bagans, Sr.

Mr. Bagans still all rosy-cheeked over his son, answered “Yes” and as happy until the man handed him two letters.

In them, his world came apart.

His last surviving son, Arthur, Jr. died in the line of duty when a bomb was exploded and he took on shrapnel, his injuries too severe to save him. In the other letter, his son-to-be, Carl, who was expected to marry his daughter that day, be home that day, was also dead…

A look of pure sadness came to Ursula’s face and Michael wondered if perhaps he was being too dramatic. He’d never forgive himself if that girl cried because of him.

“…He was crushed to death while helping to rescue children from the cellar of a bombed out orphanage.

That was it, of the six, happy, healthy young men that had left, only Aaron was left. And now Mr. Bagans is not only weighed with the task of telling his wife and daughter they’ had lost another member of their family, but that also, his daughter’s husband-to-be was dead. It was woefully tragic.

And it was a terrible scene at the church.

The church was decorated so wonderfully, with flowers and ribbons and streamers; everyone in their Sunday best and Annie looking like a princess in all that precious satin.

Everyone wad happy to see Aaron and asking where Carl was, where was Carl?

Mr. Bagans tried to bring himself to tell his daughter the awful truth but she could see it right in his face without him uttering a word. Annie became hysterical and despite everyone’s efforts to calm her, telling her that Carl was a hero for his sacrifice. she wouldn’t hear it.

Annie fled from the altar and seemed to disappear.

The entire town began combing the church and property for her.

From inside, her parents heard a scream, followed by more screams and cries for help.

They ran outside, but it was too late.

Annie, still in her wedding dress and veil lay in a crumpled heap just beyond the front doors of the church.

While some people claimed that Annie hadn’t leapt to her death on purpose, that she had been walking back and forth and become tangled in her long veil, and tripped by accident, other claimed that she had willfully jumped.

That was the final straw for the family.

Mrs. Bagans had to be institutionalized following the death of her daughter and sons, Mr. Bagans died three years afterwards of a heart attack--though others called said he died of a broken heart.

And Aaron lived until 1955, dying penniless from liver cancer induced by the alcoholism that plagued after experiencing such trauma…”

Michael leaned in, across the table, and dropped the clincher for the story onto Ursula.

“…If that wasn’t bad enough, and entire family wiped out, in 1960, fifteen years after the war ended, Carl Bradley returned to Indiana! Apparently, he’d been held hostage in a basement in England by a radical Nazi and was only able to escape after the man died. Carl had never been killed. And the whole death had been a mistake. The Carl Bradley that had died in 1942, was a man named Carl H. Bradley. And the Carl betrothed to Annie was Carl P. Bradley. He had never been killed. Carl finding out the disastrous ends of everyone, left Indiana never to be seen again…”

Letting go of Ursula’s hand, Michael pointed to the church.

“…Some people say that on dark, lonely nights, much like this one, the apparition of Annie Bagans, can be seen, wandering around and through Saint Mary’s Cathedral, still wearing her sating gown looking for Carl…waiting for the marriage that will never come…”

Pretending to be mournful, Michael dropped his head.

Much to his satisfaction, Ursula questioned in a tiny voice,

“Do…do you really think there’s a ghost there, Michael? Has anyone seen it?”

Michael had been banking on being asked something in that vein.

“No, Marlon always claimed he was too scared to go look and see, but…” Michael brought his eyes up and met Ursula’s.

“…We can go give it a look over, if you want. I’m not a chicken like Marlon. I promise to protect you…”

His heart almost popped through his sternum when Ursula bobbed her head.

She was agreeing to go! She was agreeing!

On jellified legs, Michael excused himself to the “Little Boys’ Room” but never did enter it.

Instead, just out of sight of Ursula he went to the pay phone mounted on the wall between the bathrooms and called home.

It took quite a bit of begging, pleading, and finally bribing with two months worth of his allowance, but Michael talked his brother Marlon into sneaking into their mother’s bedroom and stealing one of her white nursing uniforms--and one of her many wigs--so he could come down to the church and pretend to be the ghost of Annie Bagans, just to sort of scare Ursula. He even went to far as to instruct Marlon to slather on some cold cream so that he appeared white and dead-like.

Michael wanted that willowy creature wrap herself around him for dear life so that he could play the superhero and save her from a “blood-thirsty” spirit.

Michael told his brother to be there in about thirty minutes.

Hanging up the phone, he returned to an unsuspecting Ursula, who had managed to consume the rest of the sundae in his absence and took her arm.

This was going to be a night to remember!

The walk from the Sardi’s in the center of town, the ten or so blocks out to Saint Mary’s Cathedral was one of the most thrilling trots Michael had ever made.

Night fallen, and though the only sounds in the night, as he and Ursula walked up the heavily woodened and dimply lit lane were the sounds of their footfalls on the pavement and the odd cricket chirping, Ursula was sticking to Michael like bark to a tree.

He hadn’t thought that his story was all that frightening, but it did his heart all the good in the world to have Ursula hugging his arm so tightly it was starting to bruise. Any closer and they’d have been wearing the same shoes!

While Michael may have been swelling with a false bravado, it began to deflate, just a bit, as Saint Mary’s came into view.

His flesh did crawl slightly at the sight of the centuries old church, surrounded by a low brick fence.

The entrance marked by two, weathered and crumbling angels.

There was inside the old church, as it had stopped being used sometime shortly before Michael had been born, when a new cathedral had been built closer to the town center.

Drawing closer, Michael and Ursula could see that what had once been lovely, ornate stained glass windows depicting the life of Christ, were mostly broken and covered thickly in dust and cobwebs.

The grass surround the church was wildly overgrown around the paved and weed-taken path that led to the front wooden doors of the church, one hanging crookedly, it’s rusted hinges barely supporting it.

If there was ever a desolate place to pass a night, this was it.

The effect wasn’t lost on Ursula, who after taking less than five steps past those broken angels, had her mouth to Michael’s ear.

“May…maybe we shouldn’t have come here. I’m getting the creeps--” She whimpered her head resting on Michael’s slim shoulder.

“Aw, don’t worry Honey-Babe.” He was patting at her arm, trying to be brave, but his voice cracked with his nerves.

His mind was spinning and hoping that Marlon had made it up to the church without being beaten to death on the bus for going out dressed in drag. But he had agreed to the money and needed to be there.

Shuffling up to the door of the church, he squinted at his watch. The glow in the dark arms showed it was about twenty-minutes to ten o’clock.

Yes, Marlon had had enough time to ride the bus out to that end of town. He had to be in the cathedral.

Michael looked to the doors. Indeed, it appeared one of the rickety doors had been pushed open a bit. Marlon was there.

Trying to tug Ursula past the doors, Michael spoke soothingly,

“There’s nothing here, Honey. Its just an old pile of bricks and wood. I bet the only thing moving in there now is some rats.”

Ursula gripped his arm tighter and whined,

“I don’t like rats!”

“No girl does, unless she’s an exterminator!” Michael chuckled and raised a hand to push the door open further.


BANG!
Michael was quite literally snatched off his feet as Ursula, still holding his arm, turned and tried to flee, managing to pull Michael from the doorway and halfway down the walk.

He didn’t even have time to consider the idea that Marlon might have been hurt if something had fallen over on him or given way beneath him.

“Ursula! Ursula! It’s okay! Stop! Ursula!” Michael cried, afraid his arm was going to be yanked clean out the socket, and it took some effort for him to dig his heels in and stop Ursula from dragging him back to town.

“Don’t be scared--”

“What was that Michael?” Ursula’s eyes were bulging in their sockets, showing her fear clearly as their color. “What made that noise? Oh I just know it was that Annie person! We shouldn’t have come here!”

Wrapping her arms around Michael, she buried her face against his throat.

Patting at her back, enjoying the hug more than he probably should have, Michael cooed,

“You’re safe with me! Nothing’s gonna happen. Michael’s here, Babe--”

“Oh Michael, I want to go home! Please walk me home! I want to get away!” Ursula pleaded, and for the first time, Michael noticed that Ursula was trembling.

She wasn’t just putting on, she was truly, genuinely frightened.

“Okay, we’ll go, don’t be scared. Let’s go. Come on.”

Taking Ursula’s hand, he started to tug her along with him, and found that she wasn’t moving.

“Ursula?” He questioned, staring at his date.

She wasn’t looking at him, but at something, up over his head.

Her eyes were fixed, glassy and wide, her mouth parted, breaths coming shallowly.

Following her gaze, Michael saw what all the hubbub was about.

Way above them, on top of the church in what was left of the bell tower was a figure.

A forlorn looking creature, all in white, appeared to be gazing back down at them.

Marlon had completely outdone himself. He looked perfect!

He practically glowed in the dark, the white of his pilfered dress stood out so well against the backdrop. His face just as white was as bright as the dress itself. His eyes were deep and dark in his face.

And though no breeze was to be felt that balmy night, the long curly wig on his brother’s head was up and flowing off to the right.

If he was hearing correctly, Marlon sounded like he was sobbing, just like a grief-stricken woman.

It was sensational!

Michael went to give Ursula’s hand a reassuring squeeze and found his hand was empty.

A few yards away, he could make out Ursula beating a speedy exit through the gateway, and back onto the street.

She was running away!

“Ursula! Come back! Urs--Ursula!” Michael was doing a full-out sprint in an effort to catch her.

Ursula was moving so fast, that they were nearly back to the main street of town by the time Michael caught her.

“Ursula!” He cried grabbing hold of her arm.

She was close to hysterics!

“Michael, I saw her! I saw Annie! I saw her! She was on top of the church! I saw her. She looked at me. God, she looked at me, Michael!”

Michael could not breathe he was being clutched so fiercely, and feeling that this prank had gone far enough, and though he burned with a fiery hot shame, he confessed.

“I’m sorry Ursula, but that wasn’t a ghost, that was my brother! That was Marlon, I made him dress up like that!”

Instantly, Ursula sprang from him, eyes narrowing. And he didn’t like the look of murder suddenly taking them over.

“Your brother? That was your damn brother? Why I oughta--”

“Michael!”

Just as Ursula wound up to tell Michael a few things about himself, a new voice broke the stillness of the night.

“Michael!”

Coming towards the bickering couple, was one heck of a sight.

Michael’s brother Marlon, that poor, cross-dressing boy, in the nursing uniform, cold cream and wig, was stomping towards him.

Michael felt his brow going up in wonder.

Marlon was walking from the direction of town…not from the cathedral!

“Marlon?” He questioned, a fluttering feeling in his tummy as Ursula stood pouting beside him.

“Hey, man…” Marlon huffed as he reached them. “I’m really sorry Mike. I had to walk all the way out here. The bus driver took one look at me in this getup and said…” He glanced at Ursula. “Well, I can’t repeat it with a girl present. But he wouldn’t even let me on the bus! I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make it.”

“What do you mean you weren’t able to make it? Why do you think we’re here?” Michael put his hands up into his hair exasperated. “We saw you, on top of the church man! Ursula saw you and ran!”

“Mmm-hmm!” Ursula was nodding, and punched Michael in the shoulder angrily.

Placing hands on his slim hips, what Marlon said next knocked every kink out of his brother’s head.

“I don’t know what in the hell y’all saw or thought you saw, but I’m telling you this: I JUST GOT HERE! The bus wouldn’t carry me! I had to WALK!”

Bones in Michael’s arm crunched as Ursula latched onto it again.

Michael himself was quite dizzy.

As he began to shake all over, he slowly turned and looked back up the lane to Saint Mary’s Cathedral.

The bones in his hand popped audibly, as Ursula latched onto it and demanded the obvious hoarsely,

“Michael…if your brother is here…what in God’s name did we see?”

Michael had no answers.

He had no words for what had been seen at Saint Mary’s Cathedral that night.

There was no explanation.

After a while, Ursula did forgive Michael for the prank he had tried to pull and they eventually did become a steady couple, just as Michael had wished and hoped for.

But they never went anywhere near Saint Mary’s Cathedral ever again.

Michael didn’t know if he and his girlfriend had actually come into contact with the spirit of Annie Bagans, and he didn’t want to find out if he had!


The End.