Turkey Creek
(Part Two, to: “Colored and White”)
Turkey Creek, Alabama
When Hark, along with his two sisters, Burgundy (15-years old), and Witty (13-years old), reached Turkey Creek, they sat about and thought, and talked about what Revered Hickman had said last Sunday at the church, the church was close to the old Cemetery, the church was built small, but strong, logs with a flat lightwood stumps serving as a foundation. And the pulpit was crude, and they had benches made of hard wood. Hark sat there gritting his teeth, shutting his eyes, thinking, his mind racing until he could feel the vibration inside is body tingling—recalling his first affair with Emma, he had never been with a woman before. But now—a ways, away from Ozark, he felt better, he found himself walking into the creek, barefoot to feel the cool water, he had taken off his shoes, Witty and Burgundy were in there sock-feet.
“Where there are many beliefs, we are apt to become skeptical of them all, even our own precious faith, we’ve had since birth,” that’s what the preacher had preached last Sunday. And I reckon Hark’s faith was being tested now, he didn’t want to leave Alabama, he didn’t want to run, wasn’t eager nor anticipating, he even liked Emma, but the thought of him being killed, dying for her, made him stutter. He was surprised she had noticed him in the way she did. He was waiting to find a boat to go down the Choctawhatchee River, over to Georgia or Florida, even a canoe would do he told himself. If anything he could make a campsite right here for a few days and deliberate. But his faith in Emma not to tell what took place, was in question, somewhere along the line it would come out, it would have to come out, even if she swore she’d not tell—and that’s exactly what she did do, but those in the household would know, and if a child was born out of this lustful happening, it would be some long and tragic days ahead, not only for Hark but his two sisters.
Witty and Burgundy didn’t talk like most Negros, neither did Hark, their speech was a slight more casual and perhaps more friendly, and without hesitation lapses and all, more distinguishable, maybe because their mother had been a school teacher of the Negro grade school for a decade or so, so they could read and write, being raised in such an environment that encouraged that, instead of hatred of the races, or intimidation.
Hark had now moved into the creek some, “What are you’re plans brother?” asked Burgundy.
“I don’t rightly know sis, perhaps go on down the Choctawhatchee River, and to the bay (the Watershed, or basin), and right onto the Gulf of Mexico, and maybe over to Florida, I rightly don’t know. But we ain’t safe in Ozark anymore—it’s just a matter of time now.”
Witty had light golden skin and straight black-piercing eyes, without those eyes, and with that coloring, she might have been, I say—she might not have been mistaken for a mulatto, but white. Burgundy was pretty also, but she had heavy pendulous buttocks (ones that were more inclined to hang freely than to have some kind of muscle support), twice the size of Witty’s.
Hark had his five one dollar bills Emma had given him, and that was all he had in currency.
Burgundy said pleasantly, “Why don’t we all take a swim,” means Witty with her brother— naked to the bones. And they both took off what little cloths they had on and jumped into the creek, it was fresh and chilling as they slid down the large smooth rock the colorful fall leaves behind them, the sky, blue as the water— Hark was eye-some, to his two sisters. There was no embarrassment as he continued to scrutinize Witty and Burgundy, Hark was a handsome boy. It had been so long since he had actually seen them without cloths; he was astonished to see how alluring and good-looking they were at this moment.
“I just want to let you both know, you’re both very lovely,” he said, in his casual way of speaking. He recalled Burgundy when she was just developing breasts, now they were full. For a moment he wondered how much longer it would take Witty to develop—equally.
Then his frame of mind went to thinking he could return home, and then he got to thinking—above that kind of thinking, of other Negros being run out of the county or beaten for failing not to run out of the county for less troubles than what he felt he had, sleeping with a white woman, there was no excuse, it was lynching time, no one could save him, not even Emma, only the appearance of the Lord Himself.
He could remember many men in town, Ozark, boasting of such things, of being brutal with blacks, and they claimed to one another, that the reason there were no troubles in town, was because they stomped it out before it started.
Now Hark found himself looking at Burgundy’s legs, and he tried to appear calm and matter-of-fact, but it wasn’t possible.
Witty now was out of the water, she had slender, round ankles and well narrowing calves, and her bright yellowish skin was now even more tempting than before. He wondered why he was now—just now taking notice of both of them so seriously.
They both were more attractive than Emma, much more. He, like any other boy, was—out of habit I suppose—no different than any other boy his age—seventeen, in that he’d casually entertain himself by looking at other females, those white or black who walked by the bank, or the stables, or out there in Shantytown, only half conscious of the fact, and now both these girls were appealing to him as strong as anything he’d had endured up to this moment in his seventeen years on this earth, in his little shallow life, staring at them.
“Do you want something, Hark?” asked Witty, noticing him staring at her nakedness, naked as a jaybird about to put on her slipover dress.
“Since we are here all by ourselves…!” he said, and Burgundy quickly looked at Witty and then at Hark, then at her bareness, “Well,” she said, “we’ll have you at different times tonight,” and she smiled (but Hark wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.). He was going to say something, like: we don’t have to, but he didn’t say that, he didn’t say anything.
No: 600 (2-11-2010)
(Part Two, to: “Colored and White”)
Turkey Creek, Alabama
When Hark, along with his two sisters, Burgundy (15-years old), and Witty (13-years old), reached Turkey Creek, they sat about and thought, and talked about what Revered Hickman had said last Sunday at the church, the church was close to the old Cemetery, the church was built small, but strong, logs with a flat lightwood stumps serving as a foundation. And the pulpit was crude, and they had benches made of hard wood. Hark sat there gritting his teeth, shutting his eyes, thinking, his mind racing until he could feel the vibration inside is body tingling—recalling his first affair with Emma, he had never been with a woman before. But now—a ways, away from Ozark, he felt better, he found himself walking into the creek, barefoot to feel the cool water, he had taken off his shoes, Witty and Burgundy were in there sock-feet.
“Where there are many beliefs, we are apt to become skeptical of them all, even our own precious faith, we’ve had since birth,” that’s what the preacher had preached last Sunday. And I reckon Hark’s faith was being tested now, he didn’t want to leave Alabama, he didn’t want to run, wasn’t eager nor anticipating, he even liked Emma, but the thought of him being killed, dying for her, made him stutter. He was surprised she had noticed him in the way she did. He was waiting to find a boat to go down the Choctawhatchee River, over to Georgia or Florida, even a canoe would do he told himself. If anything he could make a campsite right here for a few days and deliberate. But his faith in Emma not to tell what took place, was in question, somewhere along the line it would come out, it would have to come out, even if she swore she’d not tell—and that’s exactly what she did do, but those in the household would know, and if a child was born out of this lustful happening, it would be some long and tragic days ahead, not only for Hark but his two sisters.
Witty and Burgundy didn’t talk like most Negros, neither did Hark, their speech was a slight more casual and perhaps more friendly, and without hesitation lapses and all, more distinguishable, maybe because their mother had been a school teacher of the Negro grade school for a decade or so, so they could read and write, being raised in such an environment that encouraged that, instead of hatred of the races, or intimidation.
Hark had now moved into the creek some, “What are you’re plans brother?” asked Burgundy.
“I don’t rightly know sis, perhaps go on down the Choctawhatchee River, and to the bay (the Watershed, or basin), and right onto the Gulf of Mexico, and maybe over to Florida, I rightly don’t know. But we ain’t safe in Ozark anymore—it’s just a matter of time now.”
Witty had light golden skin and straight black-piercing eyes, without those eyes, and with that coloring, she might have been, I say—she might not have been mistaken for a mulatto, but white. Burgundy was pretty also, but she had heavy pendulous buttocks (ones that were more inclined to hang freely than to have some kind of muscle support), twice the size of Witty’s.
Hark had his five one dollar bills Emma had given him, and that was all he had in currency.
Burgundy said pleasantly, “Why don’t we all take a swim,” means Witty with her brother— naked to the bones. And they both took off what little cloths they had on and jumped into the creek, it was fresh and chilling as they slid down the large smooth rock the colorful fall leaves behind them, the sky, blue as the water— Hark was eye-some, to his two sisters. There was no embarrassment as he continued to scrutinize Witty and Burgundy, Hark was a handsome boy. It had been so long since he had actually seen them without cloths; he was astonished to see how alluring and good-looking they were at this moment.
“I just want to let you both know, you’re both very lovely,” he said, in his casual way of speaking. He recalled Burgundy when she was just developing breasts, now they were full. For a moment he wondered how much longer it would take Witty to develop—equally.
Then his frame of mind went to thinking he could return home, and then he got to thinking—above that kind of thinking, of other Negros being run out of the county or beaten for failing not to run out of the county for less troubles than what he felt he had, sleeping with a white woman, there was no excuse, it was lynching time, no one could save him, not even Emma, only the appearance of the Lord Himself.
He could remember many men in town, Ozark, boasting of such things, of being brutal with blacks, and they claimed to one another, that the reason there were no troubles in town, was because they stomped it out before it started.
Now Hark found himself looking at Burgundy’s legs, and he tried to appear calm and matter-of-fact, but it wasn’t possible.
Witty now was out of the water, she had slender, round ankles and well narrowing calves, and her bright yellowish skin was now even more tempting than before. He wondered why he was now—just now taking notice of both of them so seriously.
They both were more attractive than Emma, much more. He, like any other boy, was—out of habit I suppose—no different than any other boy his age—seventeen, in that he’d casually entertain himself by looking at other females, those white or black who walked by the bank, or the stables, or out there in Shantytown, only half conscious of the fact, and now both these girls were appealing to him as strong as anything he’d had endured up to this moment in his seventeen years on this earth, in his little shallow life, staring at them.
“Do you want something, Hark?” asked Witty, noticing him staring at her nakedness, naked as a jaybird about to put on her slipover dress.
“Since we are here all by ourselves…!” he said, and Burgundy quickly looked at Witty and then at Hark, then at her bareness, “Well,” she said, “we’ll have you at different times tonight,” and she smiled (but Hark wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.). He was going to say something, like: we don’t have to, but he didn’t say that, he didn’t say anything.
No: 600 (2-11-2010)
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