Trouble's Always Watching Volume 1: Volume 1 (The Trouble Series)

by Courtney Smith

  “Look, but do not get too close; otherwise, you will become a casualty.” The young woman strained her eyes, and she saw arms, legs, and wings attached to glowing, white, effervescent bodies. More beautiful objects began to descend upon them. Tenesha carefully moved around to avoid the falling weapons of the defeated warriors. Any of the objects could severely injure, impale, or kill them, yet the involuntary traveler was almost too mesmerized by their beauty to move.

  The figures flew around and through each other with the fury of angry hornets defending their nest. Tenesha glanced at the surrounding horizon to see countless figures descending through the atmosphere in ways resembling confetti in Time Square during the New Year’s countdown. She saw their movements as they collided into one another like pool balls. Some of the beings moved from one area to another within hundreds of feet in nanoseconds. She strained her eyes to watch until they literally began to hurt in attempting to follow them.

  Their movements were so fast; one could miss fifty or more battles with a single blink. Tenesha was in a state of animated suspension. These creatures are amazing and terrible. They are so fast and powerful! How can anything possess so much stre-!” Thoughts of the serpent nearly consuming her sent the teenager’s mind into a petrified state of immobility. She remained still, expecting a perpetual state of agony and pain to befall her. Darkness filled her mind with grief. She suddenly heard a compassionate and recently familiar voice.

  “You don’t have to worry about that here; the angels are almost completely oblivious to your presence,” informed Grimaldi, telepathically.

  “You mean we are watching angels struggle against each other?” asked Tenesha.

  “Isn’t that what Grimaldi just said? Nobody cares about you, here! Grimaldi might as well have squeezed you out of his butt,” informed the indifferent guide.

  “Then, I don’t understand exactly what are we doing here?” asked Tenesha. Then, she leaned toward Grimaldi and asked, “Besides, is he always this rude?”

  “No, sometimes he actually goes to sleep,” chuckled the tiger.

  “You do not have to understand everything, immediately! Just know you have a very important role in these events! ” replied the unknown warrior, informatively.

  “Well, that still doesn’t tell me anything,” mentioned Tenesha.

  “I know the feeling, but everything will be explained in due time,” declared the mysterious guide with a firm voice through clenched teeth.

  Tenesha folded her arms and looked away from the young man before she glanced out of the corner of her eye to see a small amount of black smoke ascending near them. She looked toward her companions, and her guide’s muscles were flexed with both of his hands firmly grasping a clear saber’s handle. She directed her sight to Grimaldi to see a fierce tiger, bearing its teeth, extending its claws, and assuming a stance showing its massive, well-toned body. The smoke became much thicker and assumed forms. It condensed until it was slightly clear like shadows.

  Two, fifteen-feet-tall, dark figures appeared next to them. Hands, arms, legs, and feet emerged from smoke surrounding shadowy bodies as they came closer to the group. Tenesha’s hands shook uncontrollably, while she moved backwards without taking her eyes off of the new arrivals. She felt a tug gently grasping her arm until she stood beside her guide’s waist. The shadowy figures continued moving toward the trio with black, poised spears in their hands as dark, canopy-sized, feathery wings exploded from their sides.

  “I thought you said they did not care about us! I really think it’s time that you told me everything!” demanded Tenesha.

  “We really don’t have time to talk, so I will tell you telepathically through your mind,” volunteered the mysterious warrior as he continued walking away from the dark figures. Tenesha kept her gaze fixed upon the dark beings approaching her. Time seemed like it ceased for a moment because everything and everyone seemed suspended. Suddenly, the two angels rushed toward her at blinding speed with the tips of their spears less than an inch from her face. The young woman’s field of view was completely obstructed by the pointed weapons.

  Tenesha opened her mouth, releasing a staggering scream before everything went black. She lost track of everything before the weight of her thoughts caused her awareness to slip away. I guess I’m dead. What happens now? I thought my life was supposed to flash before my eyes? Where is the short, cheap-budget film of my miserable existence? A bright flash immediately struck her whole body before plains of golden grass with a dilapidated shack and a small, cocoa-brown skinned woman tending to clothes appeared before her. How do I move, and where is my body? This is not my life or my memory! This is someone else’s!

  A Survivor’s Cross to Bear

  Glistening leaves brilliantly reflected scattered beams of sunlight. The trees' limbs gently shook from the warm, subtle breezes adding little comfort to the area. A small, pale-brown cabin sat in an infinite sea of golden grass. President F. D. Roosevelt recently passed a law allowing rural areas to borrow money for electricity. However, this law did not matter if one worked on another’s land for just enough money to pay for food, clothing, and a household.

  A closer view of the house revealed eroded boards and an infinite number of splinters that would cause porcupines envy. It also disclosed a petite, cocoa-brown woman with sharp curves leaning over a large, wooden basin and vigorously scrubbing garments against a wash board.

  “Johnny Ray, get your a—!” the woman gasped, clutched her bosom, and jumped backwards upon noticing she stood in a large, masculine shadow. Her voice became a much gentler and humbler tone.

  “Reverend Stevenson, it’s so good to see you.” A formally dressed man with a husky build, coffee-grounds complexion and a face with sharp contours as defined as a graven image stood calmly yet firmly before the small, bold, and abrasive woman and responded likewise.

  “Thank you, Sister LaSalle. I really oomph--!” The reverend bent his knees and braced himself before searching for what hit him. Monica LaSalle immediately ran toward the tall man with her right arm stretched toward him.

  “Are you alright, Reverend Stevenson?” asked the concerned woman as she gently grasped the man's shoulder and helped him up.

  “I am fine,” chuckled the large man while steadily balancing himself. Monica LaSalle quickly turned her head in a thin silhouette's direction with squinted eyes and pursed lips.

  A slender, jet-black, fourteen-year-old boy with some faded, torn overalls and a small, dirty Afro stood with a slightly tilted head and a defiant smirk.

  “I c’n think of a tar-black boy that still needs ta be whipped after nearly fo’ hun’red years of slavery,” said Monica with squinted eyes, hostile tone, and thin lips.

  “How ya doin’?” chuckled Reverend Stevenson mildly.

  “I’m fine, Reveren' Stevenson,” chuckled Johnny Ray, mischievously.

  Monica LaSalle cut her left eye at her son as she softly whispered, “For right now!”

  “Are you goin’ to bible study tonight, Sister LaSalle?” inquired Reverend Stevenson.

  “I have to see how long it’ll be ‘fore my husband gets off from work, but I’ll do my best to be there,” responded Monica.

  Gene Carver LaSalle continuously shifted his straw hat as his beige hand repeatedly wiped sweat from his face. The beads stung his eyes, while he stumbled between the dusty road and clumped, dead grass. Whew! I lived here my whole life, and I still feel like an Eskimo in Hell! A sudden, weary misstep sent him colliding with the unforgiving path. He hacked as the taste of rocks and gravel assaulted his palate before bracing his fall upon the dirty path. Gene slowly pushed away from the ground and dusted off his hands and clothes as he stood. Sweat covered his hand with the watery beads as he constantly brushed them from his forehead.

  The sweet fragrance of flowers lured him like a woman's fingers stroking his nose. He inhaled deeply with a smile before grasping his throat and coughing. Another smell made him grimace before doubling over, uncontrollably. Initially, i
t was very subtle, but the smell became stronger as he progressed down the road. The two scents vied with each over their recipient's perception.

  He initially thought it was a dead chicken before his burning eyes told him, otherwise. His shifting legs trembled and with each step. Gene involuntarily followed the smell resembling rotten meat sitting in the sun along the trail going toward his home. The weary sharecropper fought his fatigue with each step as he traveled up the hill. I can't believe I have tuh walk through here!

  The weary man's hike became easier when he reached the top of the hill. He inhaled deeply during his brief glance at the magnolia tree, whose dark leaves sparkled with reflected sunlight. Gene allowed the scent of the sweet blossoms to rise in his nostrils like vapor. He walked to the trunk, and he sat upon the ground before his abdomen tightened and he vomited. The man drummed his fingers nervously upon the soil beneath him to the cadence of a song. I know what the smell is, but somethin's tellin' me I don't wanna look!!

  Gene stared to his right and beheld brown fields with opposing lines covering the landscape as patches in a quilt on the plantations below. Buzzing flies bombarded his face as he turned to his left and saw a rent, faded shoe dangling from its strings. Several small, black dots flew past his face. The man sneered as a few of the bugs bounced off of his skin.

  “Oooooh!” Gene bellowed as he swatted at the bugs grazing his face. He rose from the ground and slowly walked toward object. Gene’s head shook vigorously upon looking at a figure with crimson stains saturating its clothes, suspended by a rope made brownish red with dried blood. Flies and maggots squirmed in the cavities where eyes previously existed. Gene removed his hat and lowered his arm beside his hip with it in his hand.

  The sharecropper used his other hand to cover his face as tears rolled through his fingers. The man walked away with heavier steps and a feeling of boulders crushing his soul. I wish I did not know who died or who killed him. Gene had been telling his friend since childhood that it was not worth it, especially in Louisiana.

  It was no secret black sharecroppers were paid far less than the value their labor was worth, but the price for bringing it to anyone’s attention was very deadly. Gene retraced his steps back to the dusty trail and thought about what he would tell his family about Ezekiel Le Beau’s death.

  “Johnny Ray, grab ya Bible and hurry up” shouted Monica LaSalle. He darted to his rotten, wooden slate and quickly returned to the front of the house where Monica sat quietly waiting for him. The door made of dangling, wooden slats slowly opened with Monica’s eyes staring at it as though death were on the other side. Her eyes focused upon the rotten slats that were supposed to be a door. The watchful woman motioned with her hand without turning her head. Johnny Ray swiftly placed a rifle in his mother's right palm. The door swung open, very slowly.

  “Ya have five seconds ta identify yo’self!” shouted Monica with the barrel aimed at the door.

  “I said I’s sorry I left yo mother at the bus station, but you know she mean as h—!” exclaimed a kneeling Gene Carver LaSalle with his arms covering his head. Monica lowered the rifle with furrowed eyebrows and a sneer directed toward her husband as she walked toward the designated corner for it.

  “Reverend Stevenson was here, today,” volunteered Monica as she pressed her lips affectionately against her husband's cheek. The patriarch slowly stood up and removed his hands from his head. Johnny Ray cringed as he watched their amorous display.

  "What's wrong witcha you boy? How ya thank ya got here?" snapped Gene.

  "If it has anythang to do with what y'all 're doin', you c'n send me back!"

  "Boy! Don't tempt threatened Gene as raised the backside of his hand toward Johnny Ray.

  “We goin’ ta go to bible study,” interrupted Monica, gently.

  “I really don’t thank thata be a good idea," responded Gene as he turned around.

  “Why not?” demanded Monica with her shimmering, brown irises piercing Gene’s soul with their judgmental gaze.

  “I saw somethin’ rather unnervin’ on the way here, but it’s somethin’ that I really thank we need ta take into consideration.”

  “What does that have to do with bible study?”

  “Nothing, ‘cept what may possibly happen to us on tha way there or on tha way back,” implied Gene, solemnly.

  “I don’t thank I like the sound of that!” shrieked Monica.

  “I don’t like having to say it, but we have ta thank ‘bout ourselves and our boy.”

  “We better go to the church! We may be in some kinda danger, but if the Lord can’t protect us while we visit His house, sticking our heads in the sand won’t help us, anyway!” declared Monica as she grabbed her bible and shoved the grey, rotten planks of the entrance to the sides before walking through them.

  Each step upon the gravel reminded Gene that his family’s chances of being buried beneath it increased with each inch they came closer to the church. However, he glanced at his wife’s face in the midst of peril without yielding or flinching. Look at this little-bitty woman I am married to. She has more courage in her finger than I do throughout my whole body! She gone git us both kilt, but I rather die by her side than live wit’out ‘er!

  Eyes focused upon the pulpit like lasers. The congregants ignored the brittle rafters barely hanging above them. The stagnant air settled upon the crowd like blankets. Married couples tightened their grasps on each other’s hands. Women shook their hands, nervously. People remained seated in the pews as though their organs would rupture if they chose to leave.

  “We cannot give into the will of discrimination and subjugation! We have to ‘mount up with wings as eagles’ as the Book of Isaiah says. We may be black, but we are entitled to as much money and the right to eventually acquire land as the white sharecroppers. Thomas Jefferson said in the Declaration of Independence that ‘all men are created equal!’”

  “It’s easy for you to say all those things, but how you intend to back it up?” shouted one man.

  “Who’s gone take care of our families if we die?” protested another.

  “I thought we here for bible study; this sounds mo’ like uh rebellion!” screamed a woman. Reverend Stevenson addressed the crowd with a fierce reprimand,

  “’God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of love, power, and a sound mind!’ I do not believe that is a spirit of fear and cowardice! It is time for us to ‘take up our crosses and follow him!’ If you want to live in fear for the rest of your lives, you can do that!”

  The moon hung above the church similarly to a dark cloud suspended above a picnic.

  “It’s time for a change!” several people chanted, charging through the heavy, wooden doors with swinging fists. Determination etched itself into their faces like hieroglyphics into stone. They also spoke of revolution and change in the South. The group placed each of their steps as though they carried the power of battering rams.

  The group, which followed the first, stepped with the caution of walking on a mine field. Their eyes toggled cautiously in every conceivable direction as they traveled down the dusty path. Some glanced back at the church with frowns, pursed lips, and clenched jaws upon their faces. Others' hands trembled as sweat fell from them.

  “I really don’t mind attendin’ a meeting that talks about change, but I came to get some type of holy encouragement instead of talks of revolution!” complained Monica.

  “I didn’t want Johnny Ray to be exposed to all of the details of what happened to Zeke,” lamented Gene through his cracking voice as he turned his head to conceal his tears.

  Night enveloped the LaSalle cabin as a blanket covering a bed. A few crickets chirped with the dim light of the moon casting its eerie glow upon the residence. The creaking floorboards barely grazed the night's silence as Gene patrolled his home with his poised rifle. Knowing everything’s location made maneuvering through the dark without a lamp, easier. The vigilant patriarch slowly bent through an open window to see moonlit grass swaying.


  Gene exhaled as he placed the rifle in the corner, eased his hand along splintered wall, and walked to the plank he slept upon. He gazed at his sleeping wife's moonlit face in admiration as he lifted a thin blanket and reclined next to her. Monica's face faded into darkness as his awareness gradually left him snoring.

  Grief-filled tears soaked the sleeping man’s pillow. He kept seeing Ezekiel’s disfigured face with the eyes gouged out, and the flies occupying them. Gene raised his upper body and opened his eyes to see the pitch-black interior of his home. The man began to lower his upper body onto the pillow before feeling a crushing pressure from his bowels. He walked lightly upon the splintered floor to the outhouse.

  Gene collapsed with splinters piercing his arm after seeing a faint, amber light upon clutching the rusty, front door's handle. He ran upon the splinters on his bare feet, slid into his overalls, and grabbed his rifle. The protective father slowly walked to the door, clutching the rifle with his left hand as he pulled the door’s handle with his right hand to see a sea of white sheets, outside. His heart nearly punched through his chest with his weapon slipping through his sweaty fingers. A sea of white hoods holding torches faced the father, ominously.

  “We thought you and Zeke were good niggers. I never woulda thought that you would participate in a meetin’ for troublemakin’ niggers and those other revolutionary ingrates,” spoke a cold voice from the angry mob.

  “I intended ta go ta Bible study. I didn’t know dat they'd be talkin’ ‘bout changin’ the way thangs are done,” replied Gene.

  “Well boy, that may be so, but da fact dat you were dere still make us question yo’ loyalty. Tell you what: if we c’n have a little fun with the missus, then we can f’get that this whole thing ever happened,” suggested the cold voice.

  “Dat is outta da question, and we ain’t done nothin’ wrong, and we shouldn’t have tuh sacr'fice our dignity fo' an offense we didn’t do!” shouted Gene, defiantly.