A New Orleans Christmas Carol
I wrote this little penny dreadful in one furious draft one night last week. This is a work of fiction. Any perceived resemblance to persons living or dead should be discussed with your therapist at your next session.
This is the sort of thing that happens when you read the early short fiction of P.K. Dick around Christmas, something I don’t recommend. I have since switched to Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather and feel entirely better.
The below is an excerpt. You can read the entire tale at Toulouse Street – Odd Bits of Life in New Orleans
…The bus slowly rumbled down a Canal Street empty and dark. “No one knows where the fire started, but it was a dry storm with very little rain, and with several feet of water in the streets of Mid-City this section mostly burned,†the spirit said. Scrouge measured their progress through the dark by noting the intersections where the bus stopped, although there was no cross traffic and no one got on or off: first narrow Galvez, then wider Broad and finally the open expanse of Jeff Davis. Here and there in the dark were bright islands of light, illuminating rows of identical white trailers on city blocks covered with white clam shell and surrounded by metal fences. “They built these parks for the workers they need to keep the tourist industry going.â€
“I don’t understand. After the flood….†“The first flood,†the spirit corrected him. Scrouge stared straight ahead and through the empty bus for a moment, then down at his hands again and resumed. “After the flood, we all came back. We worked so hard. How could it they let it all happen again?†Scrouge looked not at the hooded spirit but up at the roof of the bus. “How could it happen again? How could it all turn out so wrong? †sounding like a child who had just been told there would be no Christmas. The hoodie continued to contemplate the dark outside it’s window, ignoring Scrouge’s question. The bus rumbled on and Scrouge turned the other way and likewise stared into the darkness that surrounded him.
The bus pulled up to Carrollton, and the driver announced, “Cemeteries. End of the line,†as he set the brake, opened the door and stepped out and lit a cigarette. He headed off toward a portable toilet set on the neutral ground. The hoodie stood up and waited for Scrouge to do the same. He rose up and walked unsteadily down the aisle toward the door, grasping the railings at the stairs until his hands turned white, unwilling to step out. “Out,†the voice behind him said, and its bony hand gave him a push.
He stepped out into the single bright street light that stood over the driver’s toilet and looked into the darkness. Moonlight glinted off the rows of white metal boxes that marched off into the distance on the lakeside of Carrollton. “Why isn’t this trailer park lit up?†Scrouge turned toward the hoodie and asked. “Because it’s not a trailer park,†it answered. “It’s what the driver said: Cemeteries.”…
Read the full story here on Toulouse Street — Odd Bits of Life in New Orleans.
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