THEMES, LANGUAGE AND WRITING STYLE, MAY OFFEND SOME
[LATEST UPLOAD: Wednesday December 4, 2019 – 4:00 pm Central Time]
NEW YORK 1865
Queenie sat forward in bed. She couldn’t believe what she was witnessing. Her son was interacting with a complete stranger like they’d known each other their whole lives.
On the dancefloor, the pair continued to communicate in their unique way made up of energetic sign language utilizing limbs and facial expressions that would make any mime, clown or circus performer green with envy.
“It’s changed?” Killington, who was quite charming, grinned and pretended to exasperate with his eyes widened for full effect.
Tiger laughed as he nodded enthusiastically, giving off muted sounds—grunts to be exact—which meant he was fully immersed in his environment and present activity.
The baby spun around, and Killington followed. The back of Killington’s suit jacket flew up, exposing a gun reminding Queenie of what John Killington was and what he was here to do.
Something shifted in the atmos. Queenie wrapped her arms around herself.
Queenie thought of Tiker, her son’s father, as Killington looked her way and tipped his top hat like he knew what was coming next.
The atmos had most definitely shifted for Tiker. Inside his tent where he’d been held up for more than a day, the music continued.
He’d never heard such music before. It was fluid as Latin he’d once overheard in a church he was robbing when he was a child. And it was soothing as a symphony, to which he pickpocketed the audience as he crawled along the floor in and around their feet.
Tiker moved freely in a circle. The photograph of Queenie firmly planted to his chest as he waltzed himself back to good health and high spirits.
And with every step, Tiker felt his strength coming back to him, until he was able to duck, weave and spin, all the while holding the picture of Queenie to him for dear life.
TIMES SQUARE – DECEMBER 2019
An acoustic guitar plucked with passion rang out on the streets of New York before Mendes and Cabello’s faces flashed on the Times Square screen, and then a glitch with static sound effect rubbed out the duo grabbing everyone’s attention.
In the silence that ensued, the sound of footsteps in every direction as people jockeyed for positions in the surrounding area.
Miller adjusted his beard as he walked to where people were milling as if something would happen there.
He’d thought about this moment for a long time. With each stride, he noticed others heading in the same direction. A woman the same age as he was kept looking his way.
On his other side, a white guy with the same look as Miller cast a knowing glance in his direction as if to say, “I got you, man!”
He’d seen flash mobs on YouTube before, not that this was one. On the other side, people of a similar manner, presence, of all ages appeared out of nowhere or in between everyday folk going about their usual routine.
A single strum of the guitar, and each person who had heeded the call on the f3quenZor earlier in the day telling them where, when, and why stopped in their tracks and jumped to attention. It shook the ground and raised the hair on the back of their necks.
The ring around Miller, who stood deadly still in the consecrated center of all this feeling and emotion with his head bowed and hand pointed at the big screen, was at least a thousand deep in every direction.
It came naturally for Miller as the music reconvened and the soldiers became dancers. The woman who caught his eye stepped forward and took his hand as Mendes and Cabello reappeared to “Señorita!”
“For the cause…” Miller whispered as he took the woman around the waist and began to move with her.