Giant Men and Violent Women

Copyright © 2017 by Clover Blaire

All rights reserved.

Visit my website at cloverblaire.com

Cover Designer: Clover Blaire

Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN-13: 978-1976182761

CONTENTS

ASHLEY

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

PRESLEY ANN

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

ASHLEY

It’s March 3, and Governor Wheat has five minutes and thirty-six seconds before his life is finished. I know, I know; it’s unbelievable. He has unknowingly chosen to spend his last moments at the theater with his friends, some of whom double as both his allies and his assassins. You might think this, too, is inconceivable. Trust me, I get it, but this kind of thing happens all the time.

It’s a lot like when my ancestors and the Joki Indian tribe were best friends and told each other everything—until my people began killing the Jokis for no apparent reason at all. According to the Jokis, they wiped out ninety percent of the tribe and left the remaining ten percent to starve to death. Just an example of how all relationships don’t lead to happily ever after. The moral of the story is, no one can be trusted, not when their own house is in jeopardy.

Four minutes and fifty-nine seconds.

Okay, so a little bit about me. Well, I’m sitting in the state box, right behind Governor Wheat here in beautiful New York City, right on Broadway. Well, not right behind the governor; I’m angled 5 degrees to the left. Put it like this, one adjustment of my bow tie could throw my position off by a single degree. And, as in the life of a welfare mother and me, at this very moment, a single degree can make a big difference. In my case, the bullet that is set to enter Governor Wheat’s throat could exit the back of his neck (which bullets tend to do, in case you were unaware), and hit the person immediately behind him. This is where I come in. And though I am thirsty, and have been for quite a while, I won’t be reaching for my glass of tequila, on the rocks. Goes back to that moving a single degree and dying thing. But, let’s think about this. Governor Wheat, with hair the color of a ghost, is about 6 feet tall and I’m 4 inches taller than that so, if the bullet were to hit me, it would likely enter my right shoulder. And, in most movies, being shot in the shoulder seems a lot like being popped by a rubber band. Startled, you hold the affected area and then look at the culprit in confusion, thinking, Am I crazy, or did you just assault me?

I weigh my options.

God, I’m thirsty.

I look at my tequila glass again. It’s misty. An ice cube has just taken a sultry tumble, as the bra strap of a woman who already has her shirt off. I guess a bullet to the shoulder wouldn’t be so much fatal as it would be annoying. This is where the accuracy of the marksman comes in—Mercer, that fun-loving mountain boy I call my best friend. Upstanding guy there. I have faith in Mercer, but it’s more like the faith I would have in the God of the Old Testament. My faith depends on if he’s having a good day or not.

I look over the tops of ladies with bouffants and through the crowd of tuxedos and ball gowns to spot Mercer, my lifelong friend. He’s in a darkened doorway on the third floor of the theater. He waves at me. My brother, Stone, who’s standing next to him, blows me a kiss. Wise guys.

No, I won’t be reaching for my tequila.

Three minutes and twenty seconds before I get to drink it.

Great Aunt, Hilda Wheat, Miss New Hampshire 1952, my de facto date, puts a hand on my arm. The play has come to a scary part.

The Twenty-Four is the name of the play that we’re all watching right now. It’s the Broadway play that the New York Times can’t get enough of this year. The entire House of New Hampshire—from Governor Wheat to my father, the attorney general, to the secretary of state, the one with the legs, and their families—decided to fly up to New York on a private flight because that’s just what New Hampshire folk with money do. They fly around all fancy and shit.

Also, we’re watching a musical about the founders of Darling, New Hampshire, my town’s founders, the ones who murdered the Joki Indians for no apparent reason. The founders of Darling were men whom the Joki tribe called giants and women whom they called violent. These giant men and violent women killed men, women, and children of all tribes and races during the bloodiest religious war the state of New Hampshire has ever known. Yet, here in New York City, their story is being told through song and synchronized dance steps. The logical question is, why did these giant men and violent women kill these innocent people? The answer is simple. They fought Roman Catholics, Protestants, and Indians because what else did eighteenth-century people do in those days?

Great Aunt and I are direct descendants of those giant men and violent women—or as they’re formally known, The Twenty-Four—through separate family trees. Great Aunt is a descendant of the fifteenth man to join the fight, and I am a descendant of the first man, the first one to lead the battle cry.

I didn’t add that part to brag.

Okay, perhaps I did.

But Great Aunt and I, descendants of The Twenty-Four, are living proof of how the story ends. However, Great Aunt wonders aloud if The Twenty-Four will make it through the various battles of The Great Righteous War to found Darling, New Hampshire—and tell God’s other armies to fuck off—or will they die trying?

Note: Both Great Aunt and I are not only descendants of The Twenty-Four, but we are also from Darling, New Hampshire.

Still, Great Aunt’s on the edge of her seat. This doesn’t bother me. I’ve known Great Aunt since the moment I was born, and I know she has a propensity for not being able to take much more of things. So, it’s not her histrionics that is irritating me. It’s that I must concentrate, and I can’t do that with Great Aunt worrying if our town will ever be formed and if we’ll ever be born. The truth is, I shouldn’t even be sitting next to Great Aunt.

And this is the part that’s really important.

Great Aunt is not only the wife of Boston’s honorable, which should be interpreted as weak, mayor, but she’s Governor Wheat’s mother. And, in two minutes and fifteen seconds, her son will be finished. So, her sitting next to me, as my date, is poor taste.

I turn my head and steal a look at my mother. Lovely lady. Pinned up hair and red lips. My father is proudly holding her hand. She’s looking at Great Aunt and me, disappointed. I’m about to finish this woman’s son, and here we are, practically holding hands. To finish a man is one thing. But to cuddle up with his mother? Well, my mother can’t even think about it anymore. She looks away, let down. She thought she’d raised me better than that.

So, how on earth did I end up sitting next to Great Aunt? Well, I have an answer for that. I look at Governor Wheat, who’s seated between Presley Ann and Louisiana.

Louisiana, Miss New Hampshire A Few Years Ago—I can’t remember when—is sitting on the governor’s left because that position guarantees her appearance in Boston Society. The downfall to this is that Queen Louisiana, with hair dyed the color of ale, is prone to theatrics, carrying on like a stage actor in intense and enjoyable moments in her life. Don’t ask me how I know this. Therefore, it is guaranteed that she will behave hysterically once the governor has been shot dead.

Now, on to the governor’s other side. Presley Ann, with what we mountain men call Bad-Luck black hair, has her hair down and wild yet it’s precisely organized that way.

Why is her hair called Bad-Luck black? It’s because mountain men prefer Bad Lucks, a name given to a woman who has coffee-black hair and darker. The legend that dark-haired women are sinister is courtesy of our religion. The extra scriptures of the Bible we’ve added include cunning women with dark hair who’ve seduced kings and crippled kingdoms. Why do we want this kind of woman now? Because life’s too short for a good girl. Every man wants bad luck.

By the way, Presley Ann hates me. But enough about that.

All right, so Louisiana’s and Presley Ann’s reactions might put me in a bad position. Unlike Great Aunt—who, upon seeing her son shot, will scream, fall out her chair, and need to be helped up—Louisiana and Presley Ann might try to help the governor. Trust me, that’s the last thing I need. I’m seated behind the governor because I need to verify that Mercer’s bullet has instantly finished him. If it doesn’t, my job is to slip a Xian pill in his mouth so that his breathing will stop, and he will suffocate.

So, in a perfect world:

1. The governor is shot in the neck.

2. I rush over to him and verify that he’s dead.

Depending on the results, I…

3a. Panic with everyone else.

3b. Or slip poison into his mouth.

It could all be so simple.

But Louisiana and Presley Ann.

I look at Louisiana. She’s sitting there, too afraid to move. However, while I don’t want to be shot by a stray bullet, she doesn’t want to be shot by a bad photographer. Her chin is raised high, and as The Twenty-Four appear to be losing the war through death and starvation, she’s smiling. She’d really be beaming if she knew that, in two minutes, her father, who is the head of New Hampshire’s senate, was about to become the next governor of New Hampshire.

But Governor Wheat has to finish his life first.

Great Aunt squeezes my arm. Her perfume is killing me now, so of course, I have to sneeze. The only thing that stops me is quite literally the fear of death. This would be a non-issue if not for Louisiana.

Earlier this evening, Louisiana elbowed Great Aunt out of the way so that she might sit on the governor’s left. However, Louisiana is my date.

Be right back, she told me before never returning.

But I’m not upset because, in a perfect world, I would have arrived here with Presley Ann. I’d rather have Bad Luck. But, of course, it goes back to the Presley Ann-hating-me thing.

Presley Ann came out of Harvard with a humanities degree, which is the love of history and art rolled into one to form, well, absolutely nothing. A humanities degree is as good as her not having a degree at all. Lucky for her, she’s a Boston girl who happens to be considered a Lady of Leisure. Her inherited bank funds work for her, so she doesn’t have to. And, as typical of New England women who are Ladies of Leisure, Presley Ann has gravitated toward the arts—art shows, art galleries, artists. And, now, she funds her own art shows, investing in new and exciting nobodies, selling tickets to their exhibits, hosting these art shows at hipster-approved galleries and pocketing a portion of the proceeds after recovering her initial investment. Smart girl, humanities major or not.

Her most recent art show was yesterday. My great-grandmother, who was once an artist before she married Chap and became his wife, bought a ticket for her and my date, Great Aunt, who is also her best friend.

This story just gets sadder and sadder, doesn’t it?

Eight members of their crew went to Presley Ann’s newest art show, excited, as Presley Ann’s shows have fascinating guests, the most eclectic food, the most expensive sangria, and a five-page write-up in Boston Society. Pictures—hopefully of them—are included. With a silk blindfold, Great Aunt and the rest of my great-grandmother’s entourage walked Gram into the gallery. I, on the other hand, was already there and discovered that Presley Ann’s newest nobody believes in living history—art with real people standing like mannequins in historical scenes, naked. My great-grandmother and her friends walked in, the blindfold slipped off, and, well…

I look at my watch. Great Aunt, Louisiana, or Presley Ann—which one’s gonna fuck this up for me? Let’s see.

Five…four…three…two…

Showtime.

PRESLEY ANN

It’s October 13. I’m sitting in the fog on the lawn of the governor’s mansion, home to our newest governor because my mother has become one of them.

A reggae-folk guitarist and his partner on the bongos sing softly. Sweetly. Relaxing.

You’re Bad Luck, Ashley says.

That’s Ashley for you—always trying to break some girl’s heart. Him calling me Bad Luck is a compliment. Women in New Hampshire who have naturally black hair, an oddity for a human to have been born with such a color, are exalted for it. Wicked beauties. Devil ladies. Bad Luck. Whatever you call us, New Hampshire men, dark and devilish by nature, love it. I was born with black hair and am called Bad Luck as a pat on the back. Way to go, love. The men whom I choose to love are subsequently called Lucky Devils.

Ashley drifts his eyes over to me, settles them on mine, and then brings a slow grin to his face. He’s wearing black-framed glasses. Like he’s some 1950s lawyer stuck in a courtroom at noon with no air-conditioning with rolled-up sleeves and a loosened tie.

Do you believe in reincarnation? I ask above the boom of the fireworks.

It’s the first ever Freedom Day here in Darling, New Hampshire, and we’re celebrating it in grand style. Noisy and bright all day. The dozens of other distinguished people sitting around me let off gasps of awe.

Ashley considers my reincarnation question and gives me a where-did-that-come-from look, but then he realizes that he’s speaking with me.

Sure, he says, leaning back on the grass, using his hands to cushion his head.

And, why wouldn’t he? Part of the reason his ancestors fought The Great Righteous War and slaughtered Roman Catholics and Protestants was that they believed in things like reincarnation.

I look him over. I wonder who he used to be. His eyes drift up through the fog and to the streaming white glows of fire floating from the sky.

Who’d you used to be? he asks me, as though he read my mind.

Synchronization. Ashley and I are synchronized.

Attorney Ashley Bragg. If he were a piece of art, his face and body would be considered more ancient New Hampshire than the modern ones men are walking around with these days. Broad-shouldered, hair and eyes the color of Hades’ darkest river, a strong jawline, the cut body of a combatant. Not the delicate flowers or wine-sniffers most men have become. He has the face and body of The Twenty-Four when the Joki tribe called the men giants. His face, his body is pre-modern New Hampshire, almost prehistoric, if there were such a thing. Not saying he looks like a caveman, but his look reminds you of a time when men looked like men, and there was zero chance of anyone getting the matter confused. His appearance is the very reason I don’t buy his gentle 1950s courtroom-lawyer facade. It’s also the reason I like—want to sleep with—him.

What I like about Ashley is what he might be. I’m not like everyone else here in New Hampshire who buys the handsome mountain-boy act he likes to play. I know that he makes his bones off not acting like some big city lawyer here in rugged New Hampshire. I get that; I’m not an idiot. My mother and her people are from here, so I get the New Hampshire code Ashley has to live by. In fact, I’m almost insulted that Ashley thinks I don’t get it. Sure, I grew up in Boston since my dad is from there, but never forget, I am half New Hampshire.

New Hampshire is the reason Ashley wears dark plaid or gingham dress shirts with dark solid ties and dark herringbone and tweed jackets instead of the tailored gray or black suits worn by most men of his class. He’s just an ordinary person wearing normal things. A mountain boy at heart. Gosh and golly. Please. I guarantee, if I were to flip over Ashley’s shirt collars, I’d see a luxurious name pop up at me in bold $150 print. And I don’t buy the black glasses he wears as opposed to the contacts most lawyers his age wear. He’s trying to disarm us by flaunting a weakness, and I’m not too sure I buy his poor-eyesight bit. I certainly don’t buy the charm he always has for any and everyone he encounters instead of the grin of superiority this Harvard boy could give the rest of these mountain boys. Nobody smiles anymore, not unless they’ve got something up their sleeve.

Ashley isn’t some mountain boy who loves his mom and graduated from a pleasant football-driven college where he played the sport on Saturdays. In fact, because he and his brother were shipped to boarding school in Boston when they were twelve, he doesn’t call his mother mom at all, as do most mountain men. Ashley prefers to use the standard Boston greeting of ‘ma’.

The point is, Ashley Bragg is citified, believe me. Football is about the only thing he has in common with the mountain-boy image he likes to project since he was a starting receiver for Harvard.

So, no, I don’t buy Ashley Bragg’s facade at all. But I do love it—in the same way I’d adore any other good-looking bullshitter with a bank filled with money and a wink for me when I pass by. However, I have to love this bullshitter from afar.

I’ve never bedded him, though I wish I could. There’s this pesky problem of him having a girlfriend and me having a teaspoonful of integrity that gets in the way of our lovemaking. Though I’ve always assumed that it would feel like a hot shower in a field of fog and snow.

I’m staying right here.

Yet I could just be projecting an erotic story onto the man who thinks I hate him. And, by the way, he thinks I hate him because I’m the only woman he knows who doesn’t prostrate before him—usually with him behind them. But I don’t hate Ashley Bragg. It’s just that insecurity looks a lot like contempt.

The truth is, I aspire to be as important as the others on the governor’s lawn tonight seem to feel. I dream of sitting here, in the fog, and be a resident of Darling, New Hampshire, like a small-town girl aspires to be pageant material. Because Darling to me is more than just a town.

It’s a legacy.

No one will ever forget The Twenty-Four.

Who were you? he asks me softly.

Hmm? Oh, the reincarnation question…let’s see.

I look up at the sky and see bloody-red fireballs popping. I think of my mother, the secretary of state, who has become a member of Ashley’s set, and my father, a regular ol’ surgeon from Boston.

Half-God, half-human, I say. Everyone wants to be immortal, but humans have all the fun.

A demigod, huh? I can see that.

We share a moment of comfortable silence as the reggae-folk singers croon. Streams of fireworks cascade down onto the front lawn of the governor’s mansion, like the devil’s chandeliers, and disappear into smoke.

The ghost-gray fog, the devil’s chandeliers, the mountains in the distance, the stars flickering back and forth, back and forth, the powerful people all around me. This is Darling.

Ya know, I don’t hate you. I feel the need to say this to Ashley.

You do.

I don’t.

Sure you do. He looks at me and tries to break my heart with a smile. But you won’t always.

But I don’t now.

I moved to Darling on August 21 for one reason. My mother was elected secretary of state on November 7 last year, and her appointment gave me and the rest of her immediate family permission to move into the private community of Darling, where resident applications must be approved personally by the head councilman. Darling, New Hampshire, is the town where the governmental House of New Hampshire must reside, and my mother and her family have now earned a right to live here.

My mom, Cherokee Scots, went from small-town New Hampshire councilwoman to a Darling. Here resides the king of the gods—the governor; the messenger of the gods—my mom, the secretary of state; the God of wisdom—Ashley’s father, the state’s attorney general; and the rest of their court and offspring.

My mom becoming secretary of state meant one thing. I could actually live with the set we Bostonians have immortalized. Moving to the mountains of New Hampshire sounded like moving to Mount Olympus, and I wasn’t going to give up the chance. Yet, I am with them but not one of them. And, unlike what the Catholic God says, this is a bad thing. Not being a part of the crowd is what we Catholics call spiritual maturity, but it feels a lot like solitary confinement. Inclusion is a basic human desire, and I feel secluded. I am no god. I am mortal. Yet, technically speaking, I’m just like Ashley. I’m half Darling, half Boston. Half-god, half-mortal.

My mom is from New Hampshire, and my dad is from Beacon Hill. They met at Dartmouth. And, while my mother now sits on one of the highest thrones in the state of New Hampshire, we never really lived in Jon’s Cabin—that small New Hampshire town that mom grew up in and ran a successful state senate campaign in. That small town that made her eligible to become New Hampshire’s secretary of state, according to residency requirements. We lived in a brownstone in Beacon Hill among my father’s people. But, of course, no one knows, so enough about that.

In Boston, I was celebrated for the art I promoted and the social engagements I accepted. There, in a much urbane land, we talked about a nudist exhibition—artfully done; Colorado’s legalization of pot—enjoyed while on ski breaks; and why New Hampshire’s new governor had disowned all of his children, except for Louisiana—the worst one. In Boston, I stood among professors and philosophers and socialites, tuxedos and ball gowns and sangria, and I felt at home, speaking of this nation’s evolving social expectations, sexual revolutions, and Darling’s darlings. Philosophy and scandal—I was sold. And then I moved to Darling, New Hampshire.

This is the thing. New Hampshirites don’t give a damn about the president of the United States. Their governor is New Hampshire’s king, empress, monarch, or ruler. The members of the governor’s cabinet are New Hampshire’s royal court. The royal court is paid handsomely to treat their people good, to look good and to be no good. It’s New Hampshire first, always. Damn the rest of America.

The governor’s cabinet consists of the following people—a state attorney general to look prestigious and sly and a secretary of state to look busy and badass. That last one would be my mom. Here, in New Hampshire, the governor and his cabinet are called the House of New Hampshire or simply The House. Everything in New Hampshire begins with them.

All New Hampshirites know the name of the governor, attorney general, secretary of state, and the names of their spouses and each and every one of their offspring. If you meet a New Hampshirite who does not know these names, they are not New Hampshirites. They are Americans, and there is a difference.

New Hampshirites don’t expect their royal house to be fair or right, polite or kind. They expect them to be fighters and warriors. Brilliant and cunning. Beautiful and vigorous. Giant men and violent women. They will take you as prisoners. Their bodies are toned, their diamonds are real, their food is decadent, their mouths are dirty, their guns are loaded, their targets are dead. The men are tall in stature, square of jaw, broad of shoulders, calculating when smiling, dangerous when carrying. The women tower in heels, rule with strong arms, stand with toned abs, smirk with sly grins, shoot with skilled precision. These are our rulers. And, if any member of the House of New Hampshire fails to meet any of the above requirements, their reign is over abruptly, quickly, and forever. Good day, sir or madam.

Welcome to New Hampshire.

Ashley, move along, I say while giving him a light shove, wanting him to go nowhere. Why’d you come over here, bothering me, anyway? I was perfectly fine, sitting here, alone, enjoying the show. I point toward the heavens with its devil chandeliers. Go sit with your future bride and enjoy the fireworks.

I thought that’s what I was doing.

Ashley never skips a beat. I like that about him. He’s full of shit but in the best way possible.

Boston has been buzzing about Louisiana and Ashley hooking up and finally settling down with each other. Sure, Louisiana’s secretly known around Boston as Southern Comfort, but will I participate in America’s fascination with slut-shaming women? No. (Yes.) Could Louisiana just be sowing her wild oats before settling down? Perhaps. But I’d rather The Love Story of Ashley and Louisiana be an urban legend. Why? Because I am a woman who has been shot by Cupid’s arrows, and I am attracted to a man who smells like a concoction of leather, sweet cigar smoke, and musk, and I want him. Case closed.

But, wait, is Louisiana even here?

I look around. Cherry-cheeked kids in cotton dresses or American flag shorts sit on the broad shoulders of lean, handsome fathers in blue jeans. Moms with white cotton dresses tilt their heads up toward the navy-blue sky in contented bliss.

This is my life.

The smell of vanilla cream and fried waffle cones swirls around me.

But where’s Louisiana?

Righteous Brook, Ashley says more to himself than to me.

Hmm? I ask.

But, as I look down at him, I see that he’s looking at his cell phone. On the screen is a picture of Louisiana Coolidge, the governor’s daughter, and a bevy of friends either in flag bikinis or ball caps and gold chains. All of whom—thank God—I do not know. I see that Louisiana’s mother, Seasons Coolidge, just sent the picture to Ashley. A closer inspection reveals that Louisiana is currently on the banks of Righteous Brook, surrounded by fog, with her sister, Charlotte, and brother, Dallas, along with some friends whom I’m assuming are from Boston since I’ve never seen them around Darling.

Not that I blame Louisiana for sneaking off for a few moments. Being a smiley-faced beauty queen who says all the right things, volunteers at all the right animal shelters, and wears all the right makeup has to be exhausting. Makes sense that Louisiana wouldn’t be on the governor’s lawn tonight with the rest of us. Even perfection needs a break.

Around Boston, the ducks told the chickens that the governor’s wife had banished her own children, Charlotte and Dallas, from her life after her husband ascended to the office of governor. They now have to sneak back to Darling to see Louisiana. But that’s just the ducks telling the chickens, so you didn’t hear that from me.

And, as I look at the picture again, it’s not as though Charlotte and Dallas seem ruffled. This photograph that I’m looking at now is full of life and love. Some of the celebrators are in mid-laugh, some are air-kissing, and some are jumping in the air, their arms spread out, their heads tilted back. Everyone has a joint in their hands.

Ashley scans the picture and then lets out a small huff, nearly imperceptible, over the reggae-folk duo.

This could be the happy delusion of a woman who wants to fuck him, but Ashley’s little huff just made Louisiana seem like—dare I say—a chore. But that would make sense. Ashley Bragg has a life to live. He has no time for love. Ashley’s not a lover; he’s a bullshitter. He’s an attorney, for God’s sake. There was one time in American history when there were so many attorneys that the public actually asked colleges to stop issuing law degrees. Enough already with the fucking lawyers was the call to action.

And Louisiana, well, she’s just so happy her sister and brother have come back from Boston with all their friends, fun, and drugs, as though they’re on college break and not thirty years old, that she has no time for Ashley.

I watch Ashley find Mercer’s name in his cell phone’s Contacts and then go to compose a message. I shouldn’t look, but…

Can you have this blanched from Louisiana’s accounts? the message says.

He doesn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he slips his phone into his pocket, and I dart my eyes up to prove that I would never violate another person’s privacy. But what does blanched mean? Blanched? As in to scrub clean? How can you blanch something on the Internet? Can Ashley do this blanching on someone’s account if he doesn’t have the user’s login information? How does he gain access to someone’s private account? Louisiana wouldn’t give Ashley her login, would she? Who will be the one to actually blanch the picture?

What happened? he says. He’s noticed my silence.

Nothing, I whisper back, flattered that he noticed at all.

Strange how the attention of a wealthy, handsome man can make a woman silence her voice.

He says nothing back. He doesn’t explain what he just did or even try to cover it up. But then again, he doesn’t need to.

Ashley is a Bragg. The infamous Judge Bragg is Ashley’s great-grandfather, and Judge Bragg has just had his name entered into American history books forevermore. Why? He created a law that freed every prisoner in New Hampshire. New Hampshire is now the only state in the Union to have zero prisoners in its jails. Yep, you heard me. The prisons are empty. The woods of New Hampshire are full. In them is where you’ll find all the prisoners working until their time is served or their lives are over.

I look past the lawn and onto the acres of emerald-green land the governor’s mansion sits on.

I see prisoners.

These prisoners call themselves slaves. It’s a slur that channels the feeling they have at being in their predicament. They’re dressed in gray work outfits they’ve nicknamed Slave Grays. Dozens of them, men and women, are standing on the porches of their log cabins.

Oh, I didn’t mention that I sat on the governor’s lawn, surrounded by fog, gods, and slaves? Well, sure I am.

We all have prisoners, and New Hampshire’s newest governor has given his prisoners permission to enjoy the fireworks. After all, Freedom Day is because of them. They no longer live in jails. They no longer live in cages. They are finally free.

Correctional Officers have guns in hands, surveying the land, guarding the prisoners, protecting us on the lawn. Oh, I probably should have mentioned that they’re here, too.

We have the House of New Hampshire to thank for this. My mother helped to make this happen. Ashley’s father fought to make this happen. The new governor actually made it happen.

See? I told you. New Hampshirites don’t expect their royal house to be fair or right, polite or kind. They expect them to be fighters and warriors.

Welcome to New Hampshire.

PRESLEY ANN

I can go into some heavy history of Darling, New Hampshire, but where’s the fun in that? Sure, history would explain why these people act, talk, eat and live the way they do now. It can explain why these mountain dwellers are reggae-folk lovers, but language and customs shouldn’t be taught. They should be learned, one-on-one, as you submerge yourself in another culture, in the rhythms of the reggae beat. However, I think I can sum up the whole of Darling by explaining their religion, which is the very reason they formed Darling, to begin with.

The town of Darling, New Hampshire, was formed on December 25, as most eighteenth-century towns in The New World began—with a handful of pissed off holy people. Apocrypha Catholics—giant-sized, bearded, black-haired men and violent women—according to Native American folklore, were dressed in muskrat furs, carrying a rifle in one hand and seventeen extra books of the Bible in the other. Roman Catholics considered these extra biblical books an abomination.

That handful of giant, violent people refused to let the Pope tell them that souls did not come back to earth over and over until their earthly lessons were complete. They believed in reincarnation. They refused to believe that the dead were in heaven, aimlessly walking around. No, the so-called dead were actually living souls who, if they were not reincarnated and learning lessons on earth, could speak with the living, advising and consoling them. They refused to believe in a place called hell because souls who had a bad lifetime weren’t sent to a place called hell. They were sent back to earth until they got it right.

Yet Darlings do believe in the devil and his legion, dark spirits who try to trip us up so that we keep coming back to earth over and over again. And Darlings refuse to believe the Roman Catholics when they say that there is no such thing as spirit guides who try to help you stay on course when the devil and his army attempt to divert you. Of course, there are spirit guides, Darlings think. We, humans, are on earth to learn lessons. And doesn’t every student have a guidance counselor? These beliefs are nonsense to Roman Catholics but not to Darling’s Apocrypha Catholics. And no one was going to tell the Apocrypha Catholics otherwise, not even God’s leading man, the Pope. The Pope might be their father, but he is not their friend.

And this is how Darling was created.

By the way, those Native Americans who were the first to meet the new Darlings, the Joki tribe, put up warning signs once they felt no welcome sign would be forthcoming. About one mile before you entered the new town of Darling, New Hampshire, the Native signs read—as they still do today—You shall soon enter Darling. Its people are Giant Men. They have Violent Women. Turn thyself around. Immediately.

PRESLEY ANN

Pop! Pop! Pop!

That’s the sound of gunshots.

Already? My God, didn’t dawn just break?

Ya know, I thank Ashley for this. Him and his bright ideas.

Silence. Almost…

A far away sound of a reggae-folk guitar and bongos is in the muffled distance. Must be the Bronte boys practicing down the road. It’s relaxing.

There we go…

I let my mind settle back into sleep.

So, how exactly do you cut-off someone’s air supply?

My eyes open to the question. I glance at the clock beside my bed. Six thirty-six in the morning. Sun, white linen, and vases of orange rosebuds surround me. With its wood floors, rocking chair, and bay window with a tiny cushion mattress, my room looks like a high school cheerleader named Muffin should wake up here…with the starting quarterback. I glance beside me. Nope. No quarterback. Though, in my defense, I would’ve likely had the