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

by Courtney Smith

  Several figures in white sheets suddenly pulled the ropes harder from the sides of other trees. Reverend Stevenson struggled for breath as he saw his wife and son in similar predicaments. They writhed, gasped, and choked for air, and they struggled as helplessly as worms on a hook. Reverend Stevenson resisted with his remaining consciousness before he noticed a swift movement severing his rope. He fell upon the ground like a boulder, and the captors looked around to see their subjects on the ground with some axes lodged in the side of a tree, only seconds after they were hoisting up their new effigies. The hooded figures suddenly scattered in different directions and held their torches ahead of them.

  “I dunno who you are, but if ya come out and give yo'self up, we promise ta put ya ta sleep real quick and easy,” negotiated a smug man. The men scrambled in their vain search everywhere with their various weapons poised. They returned to the center of their gathering around the large fire they had started. Some paused and stood with their eyes peeled and weapons poised. Others had their hands shaking with tension covering them like a blanket. A very young, bitter voice replied, “I think you gonna sleep much betta than me!”

  The voice reverberated off of the trees and throughout the air. Footsteps were heard running through the woods with amber lights creating glowing streaks throughout the thick trees. A short, fat man with clammy-looking hands kept spinning around in every direction with the soft sounds of his own footsteps. He pointed his weapon in the direction of a small rustle he heard. The plump man released one hand from his rifle to wipe the sweat off of his face. He raised his foot in mid step to stumble and fall after being startled by sharp sound.

  “Hey chubby!” taunted a young voice, echoing throughout the area. The man turned around only to chase shadows. He lowered his rifle, relaxed, and turned around to see a pair of angry, crimson eyes and five, clenched fingers for a fraction of second before he lost consciousness. Several, hooded figures stayed at the site of the preempted lynching to prevent any rescues; however, the men drummed their sweaty fingers on their rifles. Some of them grasped their weapons so tightly; they developed calluses and blisters in their palms. Reverend Stevenson felt the dirt of the ground pressing against his face with his eyes focused on his captors.

  His sight slowly returned with images of widened eyes cautiously toggling throughout the area through dingy, white hoods. He saw his wife's widened pupils glaring at him with a blank expression. The other intended subjects of the lynching all revived their awareness, together. Some pretended to be unconscious while others watched the whole event as it unfolded. There were other cries and shouts echoing throughout woods, and the men gathered together and stayed close to the fire. One of the figures broke away from his cloaked brethren and screamed into the woods before stopping, suddenly.

  “The only way we’re gonna survive is fo’ us to stay together,” whispered one of the men to the others.

  “People c’n die togetha' as well as separately!” shouted a young, indignant voice echoing from within the woods. The men flinched and shuddered upon hearing the response.

  “Why don’t you show yo’self, and give us a fighting chance like a real man!” challenged one of the men.

  “What type of ‘chance’ did ya give my parents?! What type of ‘chance’ did ya give Ezekiel Le Beau?! What type of ‘chance’ did ya give the others that ya killed?! Ya have tha nerve to as’ fo’ a secon’ ‘chance’ when ya didn’t give any of yo’ undeservin’ victims a first! The only thang you gettin’ from me is pure, black hell!” responded the angry voice.

  “Why don’t ya come into tha light and fight like uh man, boy!” challenged one of the members of the lynch mob. A lean, dark adolescent with fury burning in his eyes stood in the center of the crowd before any of them could blink. Their backs were toward him until one of them jumped back upon seeing him.

  “You dat boy dat we killed wit’ his parents two days ago!” recalled one the men, fearfully.

  “It’s nice ta be noticed,” replied Trouble, indifferently.

  “He must be uh ghost comin’ to seek revenge against us,” replied one of the men. Trouble snickered lightly below his breath.

  “Ya got one part right!”

  “Why are we actin’ like cowards? He just a lone, nigger boy. We c’n take him. We got sev’ral others that ‘re much larger th’n he is,” affirmed one of the men as he pointed to the Stevenson Family and the captive group. The men quickly encroached and surrounded Trouble.

  "I don't care what cha say! Dat ain't no ordinary nigger! Dat's some kinda super nigger!" protested another voice.

  “Trouble, get outta here so you c’n live! You a fool if ya think you c’n win uh fight ‘gainst several, armed men!” exhorted one of the scared voices from the group of intended victims.

  “Too late fo’ that, now. We gone ta finish what we started wit’ yo’ parents by sendin' ya ta hell!” shouted one of the white sheets.

  "Already been, but I be glad ta take ya there wit' me!"

  Trouble’s eyes burned a brighter crimson, and his muscles began to swell. The men rushed to the center, brandishing rifles and swinging their pitchforks wildly to find they were just aiming at the air. Men disappeared within seconds, and others flew across the site into trees with bark and leaves scattering upon impact. Several were unconscious before they landed. Shots were fired at the thin, vigilant figure, but they could not get a clear aim because their target moved at blinding speeds. Trouble suddenly saw the eyes of the man who restrained him during the lynching of himself and his family.

  He charged the man and smashed him into a tree with such invincible acceleration and precision; the imprint left on the plant created a perfect, inch-thick mold. The man fell helplessly on the ground with his awareness completely gone. One lone man stood in the center of the site, holding a pitchfork with shaky hands. Trouble walked very calmly toward him with a slight smile upon his face, and his hands clasped lightly behind his back. He glanced at the tool and looked into his enemy's eyes.

  “You know that fear that is coursin’ throughout yo’ body, right now? That is exactly what my paren’s felt befo’ you killed them!”

  The man jabbed the sharp prongs in Trouble's direction, but he retracted it to find half of it was gone. He stared at the wooden nub before dropping it to the ground. He spun around, knelt on the ground, and he toggled his head with his hands moving in successions through the soil in a frenzied manner.

  “Are ya lookin’ fo’ this?” asked Trouble as he held the sharp points at the man’s throat.

  “Now, boy, you know a nigger c’n get in uh lot of trouble fo’ killin’ uh white man. You know you don’t want ta hurt me ‘cause I got frien's that’ll make ya suffer and kill you,” pleaded the man with bulging eyes and trembling fingers.

  “Too late! My parents 're already dead! Anythang you coulda done ta me at dis point woul' only make me feel betta! I'm always in trouble! I’m glad ya have frien’s an’ family ‘cause most uh mine ‘re gone thanks to you and yo’ friends and family. By da way, most o’ yo’ frien’s ‘re not dead, jus’ unconscious or injured, but that c’n change, really quickly,” threatened Trouble, bitterly.

  He slightly raised the pointed object, pushed the man on the ground, and quickly plunged the rusty prongs, downward. The man closed his eyes and prepared to embrace death. A few seconds passed when he realized he was not dead.

  He saw the sharp prongs standing in the ground inches away his head upon opening his widened eyes. The man jumped up and attempted to run away until he felt a sharp blow to the back of his head and lost consciousness. The victor raised the man's limp body with his left hand, and stretched his right arm back with a clenched fist aimed at the back of the man's head. I'm mo’dan strong enough! I think I wanna see dis man's brain's fly outta his skull!

  “Trouble, please, don’t kill 'im!” begged a voice in the crowd of intended victims.

  “Why ‘re ya so sympathetic towards someone who was willin’ ta bury ya fo’ no good re
ason?” asked the lean avenger with a hostile voice, glaring at them through crimson eyes.

  “Hatred is self-consuming, and it’ll ‘ventually destroy ya if you possess it! Ya have e’ry right to feel angry! But if ya render them of they lives, you’ll ‘ventually ‘come as corrupt as them!” shouted Reverend Stevenson. He stared into the pastor's eyes with a resentful frown before releasing his grasp on the unconscious man and watching him fall, unsympathetically. The livid, young man slowly walked toward the bound group and literally ripped the ropes off of their bodies, necks, and wrists with his bare hands. The grateful captives looked at the adolescent with open mouths and smiles upon their faces.

  He walked away from the group, fell to his knees, and shook his head with tears falling from his eyes. Several warm hands grasped his shoulders. He stared up with normal eyes to see the eyes of Reverend Stevenson, Dorothy Stevenson, and Reynaldo Stevenson looking down at him along with the rescued victims.

  “Trouble, I’m truly sorry fo’ tha way that I treated ya. I should always give someone a chance ‘fore I ‘llow rumors ta make me treat someone a certain way,” apologized Reynaldo Stevenson.

  “Me too,” uttered a chestnut woman with tears filling her eyes. Reverend Stevenson smiled upon seeing his family embracing Trouble. Reynaldo's eyes widened as he stared at the unconscious and injured men around the site. Then, he turned toward their young, indignant savior and asked a question:

  “What you gone do wit’ tha men?” Trouble smiled as he glanced at the men with a frown arched into his face like a bad omen.

  A New Life on Wheels

  Bright, golden streaks of light slowly pierced the surrounding darkness of the passing night as the familiar, glowing sun partially peeked above the horizon. The light shone upon several, blindfolded men with hands tied behind their backs, hanging by their feet in trees as high as thirty feet above the ground with the wind gently swaying their bodies above a thirty-foot-deep trench. The same warm breeze grazed the cheeks of a sleeping, dark-skinned adolescent, reclining in a hammock dangling above his captives within branches forty

  feet above the ground.

  “Let us go, ya filthy nigger!”

  “You gone die fo' dis, boy!”

  “We gone skin ya like a 'coon an' feed ya to da gators!”

  Trouble's smile became wider with each screaming threat passing through his ears. He reclined more deeply before a glimmer flashed from the opposite direction of the sun through the side of his eye. He slowly rose his head and peered through the surrounding leaves to see a group of people, draped in white sheets and holding lit torches, approaching the forest trees. An empty hammock throbbed from side to side before the men blinked.

  The boy did not fear the impact gravity would have upon his landing. A cloud of dust rose like a furious wind as his sandals sent small shockwaves through the dry soil and golden grass. Dust clouds leapt like flames behind him as he sprinted toward the group. His fists were clinched tighter than an oyster’s shell. The group arrayed in white sheets began raising their rifles and shuddering, as the uncanny adolescent sped toward them.

  Five knuckles stopped one inch away from one of the cloaked figures before saying, “Trouble, it's alright!” The adolescent immediately ceased in his tracks upon hearing a voice he knew since his early childhood. The cloud of dust caused by his speed shifted past them, causing the men to cover their eyes. He slowly walked within a foot of one of the men. The boy saw dark skin instead of beige or alabaster flesh when he looked through the eyeholes of the sheets.

  “Reverend Stevenson? I ‘member what you were sayin’ ‘bout ’lowing hatr’d an’ vengeance ta consume me. Are you tellin’ me not ta do somethin’ that ya practice?” asked Trouble.

  “No one’ll die unless you kill ’em yo’self,” replied Reverend Stevenson.

  “So why you have alla da torches, sheets, pitchfo’ks, and rifles? I don’t see why you need dose thangs if ya do not inten’ ta hurt anyone.”

  “These are just placebos. That basically means that we’re jus’ goin’ to ac’ like we gone ta kill’em without actually doin’ it.”

  “I seem ta ‘member a certain person tellin’ me that pullin’ pranks on people could eas’ly hurt ‘em an’ poss’bly tha people playin’ the tricks.”

  “Well Trouble, that is true, but we entitled to a little revenge. Besides, I's there when ya hurt dose men that were ‘bout ta lynch Reverend Stevenson and his family! I’ve never seen anyone, ‘specially a teenage boy, get so angry!” shouted another hooded person.

  Trouble turned away from the man without speaking for ten seconds with blood dripping from his clenched fists. He composed himself, returned his glance to the man’s direction.

  “You absolutely right. I wanted ta rip they arms and legs out of they sockets an’ feed ‘em to the alligators. I wanted to make ‘em suffer the same way that they made my fader suffer ‘fore they ended his life. I also ‘member that I was doin’ devious thangs ta brang negative ‘tention to myself. I know dat dis c’n only lead ta bad thangs. I still have the men hangin’ upside down o’er the pit of gators that I dug, but I was goin’ ta ‘ventually let ‘em go,” explained Trouble.

  “If ya do dat, don’t ya thank that they would only tell others, so they c’n come down and lynch us wit’ much larger groups,” speculated another man.

  “Maybe, but I’d be the only one takin’ da risk. If ya go as uh group, and they see yo’ skin through yo’ eyeholes, you don’t thank that the consequences would be jus’ as bad? They'd come afta anyone black; whereas if I were actin’ alone, they would jus’ be after me,” explained Trouble.

  “I thank you forgettin’ somethin’, Trouble!" interjected another voice. The lean adolescent turned around to see a rather calm Eric La Feat.

  “I thank you forgettin’ ‘bout Judge Eckels, an’ his random selection of vic’ims. Remember when he wan’ed to punis’ me for somethin’ that ya did?”

  “Yes. I also ‘member that ya father (André La Feat) also got involved in an attempt to rescue you, and I mention that ‘cause many people can easily get caught in da middle of a poss’ble conflic’ without consciously participatin’,” replied Trouble.

  “I did ‘consciously participate’ when I saw Judge Eckels tryin’ to take my boy, away!” clarified André La Feat.

  “I think it’s well ‘stablished that I was a very ill-mannered. I can’t ‘pologize ‘nough fo’ what I’ve put you an’ yo’ father through, but I still thank tha situation is diff’rent ‘cause I was ‘sponsible fo’ the diff’culty that I have caused you an’ yo’ father. It was necessary fo’ yo’ father ta get involved ‘cause the trouble came without ya doin’ anythang ta cause it, but you goin’ out an’ actin’ like you goin’ ta lynch someone is completely diff’rent. You‘re startin’ trouble regardless of how passive it may seem. Any ‘tempt ta give a threatenin’ ‘mpression is almost as dangerous as actually carryin’ out tha suggested act.”

  “Trouble may actually have uh point,” agreed a man in the mob.

  “My point is whether one person does somethin’ or whether everyone participates, we are all goin’ ta get blamed. If one of us does somethin’ ta stir them up; they’ll come after us all,” expressed Eric La Feat. Trouble shot a sharp glance at the boy who was once his enemy after seeing him agree with him.

  “I could always leave, but what’ll happen to the people if I do? Just like Judge Eckels went after Eric La Feat fo’ somethin’ dat I did, a retaliation could occur agains’ everyone that is black as uh result uh one o' us doin’ somethin’,” stressed Trouble.

  “All tha mo’ reason fo’ us ta act together as opposed ta havin’ each of us bein’ lynched in ‘taliation fo’ the actions of one!” shouted another man.

  “They’ll lynch all o’ us, includin’ dose that haven’t participated,” continued Trouble.

  “What’s the solution ta dis probl’m?” asked another man.

  “I don’t thank there is uh solution. Some of tha lynchings
were takin’ place ‘cause we were tired of bein’ underpaid, falsely ‘cused of crimes wit’out jus’ cause, and protestin’ random acts of violence ‘gainst us. It seems that the ‘vents were goin’ ta take place regardless of what was done ta pacify them,” reiterated Reverend Stevenson..

  A sharp thunderous sound interrupted the clamor. All of the men slowly turned around to see another, large group of masked men with torches, pitchforks, and rifles aimed in their direction led by a hooded figure holding a smoking rifle.

  “We have y’all covered, and ya need ta drop yo’ weapons an’ keep yo’ hands where we c’n see ‘em,” shouted one man from the opposing group.

  “We heard ‘bout a troublesome boy ‘mong ya that was makin’ all kinds of strife for us. If ya drop ya weapons and give ‘em to us, we might consider sparin’ the rest of yo’ ungrateful, miserable lives!” shouted another man from the opposing group. All of the men had their pistols and rifles aimed at Reverend Stevenson’s group.

  “We’re with you,” suggested one of the men arguing among the group, earlier.

  “We heard y’all arguin’, earlier, so don’t even bother tryin’ ta lie!” replied one of the men from the opposing group. Reverend Stevenson slowly placed his rifle on the ground, raised his hands, turned to his followers, and motioned for them to place their rifles on the ground. The reverend’s group responded to his gesture, disdainfully but respectfully.