Write a Scene 4

SAND POINT
Long Island, New York

The chauffer pulled the limousine around the circular driveway. He parked the vehicle, withdrew the key from out the ignition, and then unsnapped his seatbelt. He pushed his door open and stepped out. He pushed the door close.

Mr. Delaro and three other men were already assisting Tango and Domenico out the limousine.

Two men placed Tango’s arm around their shoulder.

Mr. Delaro and another man, placed Domenico’s arm around their shoulder.

“Hang in there Domenico and stay with me.”
“Fuck!” Domenico scowled in pain. “Mr. Delaro…that nigger…is…is…fucking crazy, Mr. Dela…Zaniyah…Russians, crate, save her.”

Domenico rushed out in a state of mental frenzy. He looked around; he was dizzy, disoriented, sweating profusely, and losing a lot of blood from his open wounds.

Mr. Delaro looked down at the blood saturation at Domenico’s thigh, and then up at both of his dangling bleeding hands.

Domenico’s body went limp, his head slumped forward.

“Come on man hang in there. The doctors are waiting on you two.”

Mr. Delaro rushed to his door. He looked back.

Tango’s head was hung forward. Mr. Delaro assumed he was unconscious.

Two men carried Tango to the front door. The tip of Tango’s toes dragged on the paved concrete.

“Hurry up dammit!” Mr. Delaro hollered to his staff.

The chauffeur took his hat off and wiped away the accumulated sweat to his forehead. He has never heard grown men, wallow in pain, as he has heard mile after mile.

Domenico and Tango was assisted through the door of sterile spacious bedroom setting.

A private team of doctors, three surgeons, and four nurses donned in surgical scrubs, protective covering on their shoes, and face plastic shields, awaited their presence.

A surgeon wheeled a gurney over to Mr. Delaro and the other man holding up Domenico’s limp body.

Domenico was lifted and placed on a gurney and rushed across a makeshift operating room. Two nurses and the two doctors lifted Domenico’s body and transferred him to an operating table. His pants were immediately cut off him and peeled away. His jacket and shirt sleeve were cut and then ribbed open.

The nurse thumped for a vein.

An IV was inserted inside the back of his hand, wrapped, and the transport fluid tubing, was taped down.

A potassium chloride drip was started.

Tango heard voices in and out of conscious. He felt something being inserted at the back of his hand.

Several people were talking over him, blurred visons of faces looked down on him before someone placed a mask over his nose and mouth. He succumbed to the darkness.

Mr. Delaro looked on as two of his best men were operated on. He quietly slipped out the bedroom.

Mr. Delaro huffed back to his study and entered. He slammed the door close. He walked around his desk and took a seat. He lifted the telephone receiver and dialed several numbers. He placed the receiver up to his ear.

LITTLE ITALY
Lower Manhattan, New York
Mulberry Street

“I need everyone here by nightfall, and that favor.” Mr. Delaro leveled the receiver to his chin. He thought for a moment. His father wanted him to get the last title deed to Mr. Ramo’s property, which is preventing their final phase of building a casino in Manhattan and the borough of Brooklynn. Mr. Delaro placed the receiver back up to his ear. “I will call you tomorrow.”
“Word, on the street. Your best two men were shot up by a Negro.”
“Yes, a potential problem I have to wait on dealing with.”
“All you have to do is give us the word to take him out.”
“Soon very soon.”

Mr. Delaro slammed the receiver back in the cradle.

Now that his two best men are fighting for their lives. He needs someone to step in a get that last title deed from Mr. Ramo.

“Fuck, I’m almost there, shit.”

He just may have to go and pay Mr. Ramo a visit himself.

“Miss. Jikonos,” Mr. Delaro hollered out.

Miss. Jikonos rubbed her hands on the front of her apron and walked out the kitchen. Her feet took her in the direction of Mr. Delaro’s study. Miss. Jikonos knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

Miss. Jikonos reached down for the doorknob, twisted it, and then opened the door. She stepped inside Mr. Delaro’s study.

“Yes sir.”
“I need you to advise the chauffeur to have the limousine cleaned and detailed and then have my Rolls Royce ready to ride out in an hour.”
Miss. Jikonos bowed.
“Yes sir.”

THE GRAND MILLENNIUM CONDOMINIUMS
Manhattan, New York
Upper West Side
Later That Afternoon

Zaniyah paced her condominium. Any minute, she knew Tango or Domenico would come and whisk her away to her father’s estate.
Her telephone rang. She looked over at the telephone stand.

“Shit.”

Zaniyah walked over to the telephone stand, and lifted the receiver from out the cradle. She placed it up to her ear.

“Hello.”

ONE BEACON COURT
Manhattan, New York

 “Girl where have you been? And why did you leave your girls hanging last night.”
“I’m sorry, something came up, and I left my Blackberry at my art gallery to contact anyone.”
“Well I have us seated at the Jazz Expo at the Blue Note Jazz Club this evening, and no excuses.”
“Why do you make it seem as if you’re not going to be lying in my bed in the future; more so, like later on, after I take my beautiful woman out to dinner, and no more excuses beautiful woman?”

Zaniyah smiled; Marcus told her the exact same thing this morning.

God she missed his arrogance, his presence, and him in general.

“Zaniyah are you there.”
“I’m sorry, yes, and I could really use a night out. You two can meet me in front of the Jazz Club.”
“Listen, if you cannot make it, please call.”
“I will Rosalina, and I’m sorry about last evening.”
“I hope he was well worth it under the covers.”
That and so much more she wanted to say.
“I will see you this evening.”

Zaniyah replaced the receiver back in the cradle.

QUINTESSENTIAL TRIBECA LOFT
New York, New York
Later That Afternoon

Marcus closed the door after two of his Navy Seal friends, and a discreet crime scene cleanup crew assisted him with the cleanup of his loft, his hallway, the freight elevator, and his entry hallway. He walked over to his couch. He looked down at the carpet. Not a blood stain remained behind. He glanced around.

The sanitizer odor was strong in the air, yet very effective for the job for which it completed.

Tomorrow he will have the entire carpet replaced and the bill, as he thought earlier, will be sent to Mr. Delaro.

“And to think, I was fucking that bastard’s daughter. Well it’s about time I hit some skin and not the daughter of a mobster.”

Marcus walked over to his stairwell, and walked up the steps.

In a crises such as this; he knew just the female who could arise to the call of pleasure. Marcus smiled as he continued to walk up the steps.

SAND POINT
Long Island, New York

There was a knock at the door. Mr. Delaro set his ink pen down on his desk and looked over at the door.

“Come in.”

Miss. Jikonos opened the door to Mr. Delaro’s study. She peeped her head inside.

“Mr. Delaro, Carlito, has advised me the limousine has been cleaned and detailed and is now accessible, and your Rolls Royce has been pulled out front. Oh, and the surgeons would like to speak with you in ten minutes on the progress of Domenico and Tango’s condition.”
“Thank you Miss. Jikonos, and that will be all.”
“Yes sir.”

Miss. Jikonos pulled the door close.

Mr. Delaro reached out for the telephone receiver, lifted it from out the cradle, and placed it up to his ear. He pressed in the number to his daughter’s Blackberry.

ZD’S ART GALLERY
Park Avenue
Manhattan, New York

Zaniyah placed the framed painting from the John-Richard collection aside. She walked around her desk and reached down for her Blackberry. She slid it open and looked down at the number on the screen.

“Shit.”

Zaniyah took a deep breath. She pressed in the okay button and placed the Blackberry up to her ear.
“Yes, father.”

SAND POINT
Long Island, New York

“I was calling to ask how are you. And can you join your father for dinner this evening.”
“Oh, father, I would love too, however, me and the girls already have plans to attend a Jazz Expo this evening.”
“Then I will meet you ladies at Carbon’s Italian Ristorante much later.”
“We will be there around ten.”
“I have been meaning to ask you. Has your vehicle been serviced?”
“Yes sir, I’m now driving my own wheels.”
“Good. Say, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find that black guy.”

Zaniyah held her Blackberry back; she placed it back up to her ear.

“Father, Marcus and I are no longer communicating with one another, as of yesterday.”

Mr. Delaro palmed his mustache down.

“I will see you this evening dear.”
“Yes sir.”

Zaniyah slid her Blackberry down.

Her father was just a little too calm. She knew something was brewing in the wind, but what? She is no longer seeing Marcus.

“I refuse to have you invade my life, turn my emotions topsy-turvy and then disappear into the night. Now I’m asking my beautiful woman, what is going on in that beautiful head of hers?”

“I would just like one more night in your arms handsome; damn, damn, damn.”

There was a knock at her door.

“Come in.”

Zaniyah pulled her chair back and sat at her desk.

Her assistant rushed into her office.

“Miss. Delaro, there are five men, scouring through our storage room inventory.”
“What!”

Zaniyah rose from her chair. She rushed out her office.

Nikki, followed close behind.

Zaniyah ran down the hall and rounded the corner. She ran into the open area of her art gallery. There were two men who stood at the door. She could not make out their faces, due to the sunglass concealing their eyes.

“I would like to know, what is the meaning of this, and who are you, and what are you two doing in my art gallery
“That is for you to tell me.”

Zaniyah turned around at the deep male’s voice.

A man who stood at least 6 feet 4 inches, stared down at her 5 feet 8 inches.

Dmeshii walked into the open foyer of Zaniyah’s art gallery. He lifted the scarf resting around his suit jacket and wiped the palm of one of his hand.

Nikki and Zaniyah huddled together. Nikki looked behind herself at the two men who remained rooted at the door.

“Can I help you gentleman with something? This art gallery does not open for patrons for an hour.”

Dmeshii walked over to where Zaniyah and Nikki stood.

Zaniyah stepped back.

“I think you have something that belongs to me.”
“Were you notified from an art dealer your order has arrived at my art gallery?”

Zaniyah looked at Nikki and nodded her head for clarification.

Nikki shrugged her shoulders at Zaniyah in ignorance.

“Sir, if you step into my office, we can discuss this further.”
“Huh.”
“An order, I presume you are here to pick up.”

Dmeshii palmed his goatee down.

“Dammit, enough games here! I am here for the crate. I was advised it was delivered here, and according to my men who have combed through several crates and boxes. It’s not here.”
“Are you talking about the crate of teddy bears?”
“That is exactly what we are discussing.”

Dmeshii’s eyes oved over Zaniyah’s breasts.

“I had it returned to the original sender.”
“You fucking did what!”
 “If you look around and notice this is an art gallery not a children’s toy store.”

The two men at the door unbuttoned their suit jacket.

Dmeshii looked over Zaniyah and Nikki’s shoulder. He slightly shook his head at his two bodyguards.

“I’m sorry, what is this visit really about?”

Dmeshii glanced down at the woman’s facial features. She was very beautiful, by his Russian standards. He glanced at her facial features again, and very young. He stepped in front of Zaniyah’s face. He clasped her chin and lifted her face. Her innocent eyes met, his stern midnight-black eyes.

“You have three days to get that crate back to me.” Dmeshii, glanced around Zaniyah’s art gallery. “Or this art gallery will not be here.” He looked down at her lips, and then down into her eyes. “Do we understand each other, Zaniyah Delaro?”

Zaniyah nodded her head.

Dmeshii looked over at Nikki.

“It would such a pity to have two beautiful corpses floating down the Hudson River.”

Dmeshii released Zaniyah’s chin.

“Boys,” Dmeshii bellowed out.

Five men glided into the open foyer of Zaniyah’s art gallery. One of the men posted at the door stepped back, turned, and open the door.
All seven men walked out her art gallery. From looking out the floor-to-ceiling window, a waiting gray long stretch Mercedes limousine.

Dmeshii turned to Nikki, and then turned to face Zaniyah.

“Ladies.”

Dmeshii walked out the door.

Zaniyah ran over to the door, slammed the door close, and then locked it. She pulled down the door shade.

“Nikki, I need you to get on the phone and track down that crate.”
“What if the crate has already been returned?”
“I hope not, and what the hell was enclosed, other than teddy bears.”
“Maybe those men were going to put those teddy bears on the market.”
“Then they should have insurance on their shipment. Dammit Nikki, what happens if we cannot find that crate.”
“You heard that man.” Nikki looked around the art gallery. “This art gallery will not be here.”
“Yes, I heard that as well.”
“Maybe we should call the police.”
“Until I know the significant of the contents inside that crate, I say we hold off.”
“Okay, you’re the boss.”
“I will be in my office on the phone trying to locate that damn crate.”

Zaniyah turned and walked back to her office. She bypassed her storage room. She ducked her head inside.

Several box flaps were open and several crates had the wooden tops off.

Zaniyah took a deep breath and walked to her office.

QUINTESSENTIAL TRIBECA LOFT
New York, New York
Later That Evening

Marcus knotted his tie. He lifted a bottle of aftershave, tilted the bottle into his palm, and upright the bottom. He slapped the liquid scent to both cheeks before the droplets flowed into the sink. He reached down for his wallet. It slid inside the wastebasket.

“Shit.”

Marcus lifted the wastebasket and placed it on the vanity surface. He rummaged inside for his wallet. He lifted it out. A box was stuck to the leather skin. He peeled it off. He read the box, “An ovulation detecting kit. What the fuck.”

Marcus placed his wallet down on the vanity. He turned and perched his presence of the vanity top. He thought back to all the times Zaniyah and him made love without a condom. He palmed down his goatee.

“I know this bitch was not trying to get pregnant, and by me?” First he felt honored, and then pissed. “That should have been a mutual decision, fucking bitch.”

 Marcus dropped the box back inside the wastebasket; he set it back down on the floor.

“Dammit, what were the test results, shit!” He erected his posture, bent over, and looked back inside the wastebasket. He moved several items against the side. He did not see the actually test. “So she planned this shit?”

Marcus angrily placed his wallet inside the back of his pants pockets. He walked out the bathroom.

BLUE NOTE JAZZ CLUB
New York, New York

Marcus escorted his date into the Blue Note Jazz Club. He founded a table up front. He pulled back the chair for his date.

“Thank you.” Francine sat down. She looked around the intimate Jazz Club. “I’ve never been here before, and I heard this place is legendary.”
“Then you are in for a treat.”
“You may thrill me with your treat anytime, agent man.”

Marcus winked at Francine.

“What is my beaut… What are you drinking tonight?”
“A white wine would be nice.”
“And no one sits here, but me, you feel me.”
“Much later, I sure would like too.”
“I love when you’re bringing it.”
“I’m way past bringing it, consider it now brought.”
“Then I suppose, this brotha has to represent.”
“Yes you do.”

Marcus stroked Francine’s cheek. He walked over to the bar.

Zaniyah, Rosalina, and Martinez walked into the Blue Note Jazz Club.

“Good, it’s not that crowded yet,” Martinez, mentioned to the two.

Zaniyah looked around. “And there are still several tables available.”

“Why you two go and grab us a table. I will go and grab the first round of drinks.”
“All right,” both women replied in union.

Zaniyah and Martinez walked toward the back of the Jazz Club to select a table.

Rosalina walked over to the bar. She noticed the guy from the Italian Ristorante.

“Good evening.”

Marcus pivoted toward the soft voice.

“Well nice to see you again pretty lady.”
“I never mistook you to admire Jazz.”
“I played a few notes for a Jazz band in my college days.”

Marcus glanced around the Jazz Club.

“She’s here as well, Marcus.”
“Here you are sir.”
Rosalina noticed the two glasses Marcus just paid for.
Oh boy she thought.
“Take care and enjoy your evening.”
“You too, Marcus.”

Rosalina returned to the table. She looked down at the empty seat.

“Where is Zaniyah?”
“She excused herself to go to the restroom.”
“Don’t mention it, but Marcus is here.”
“Don’t mention what?”

Rosalina looked up.

Zaniyah claimed her seat.

“Don’t mention what to me.”
“Ahh.”
“Would you just say it?”
“Marcus is here.”
“My Marcus. I mean, the man from the Italian Ristorante.”
“Yes, the one and same.”
“Where?”
“I assume in the front, and girl, the man looks damn handsome this evening.”

Martinez looked over at Zaniyah.

“I will be right back.”

Rosalina placed her hand over Zaniyah’s hand.

“He’s already here with someone.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, he was paying for two drinks.”
“Well, it’s his loss. To the ladies this evening.”

Each woman lifted their drink, clicked their glasses together and then took a sip.

Marcus looked around the Jazz Club. He looked back at Francine. He took a swig of his drink and looked around the Jazz Club once again.
Francine scooted closer to Marcus’ chair.

“Would anyone like a drink?”

Martinez and Rosalina looked down at their half-filled glass, and then over at Zaniyah’s glass.

“I’m good.”
“So am I.”
“I will be right back.”

Zaniyah rose from her chair. She made a path through several patrons, filling the Jazz Club. She looked over at Marcus, and an African American female cozy upped. She walked over to the bar.
Marcus glanced around the Jazz Club. His eyes landed on Zaniyah walking over to the bar. He leaned over and whispered in his date’s ear, “I’ll be right back, I see an old acquaintance of mine.”

“Sure.”

Marcus stood and walked over to the bar. He looked at the back of Zaniyah’s legs.

The white dress she had on molded her derrière, and curvaceous hips.

Marcus leaned forward, and palmed her back. His hand slipped downward to her buttocks and squeezed them. As he suspected, she did not have any underwear on.

“That hand is an invasion of privacy.”
“This hand along with the fingers have been more places on this body than the ass.”

Zaniyah smiled and turned around. She looked up into Marcus’ eyes.

“You look handsome this evening.”

Marcus looked down at Zaniyah’s breasts. Her hair was coiled on top of her head; even her neck, bare shoulder blades appeared sexy to his eyes.

“Thank you, and you look sexy.”
“Thank you. Well I would allow you to get back to your date.”
“Pardon me.”
“Your date.”
“Oh yes, well take care of yourself.”
“Ahh you too.”
“Oh snap, I found an ovulating detecting kit in my bathroom wastebasket, you have any idea how it got there.”
“Yes, I use them in regards to irregularity, and let’s just admit it, I do not want your child.”
“With a stubborn woman who cannot determine if she is a child or a woman in the next breath, I do not want a child from you. Have a nice evening, Zaniyah.”
Marcus walked away.
“Oh…he makes me…”

She missed his arms and the security she found in them.

Copyright©SKC-2019  

Marshes and meadows
Sunshine and shadows

Gentle ripples on the calm river
Foaming rapids in white water

The jungle echoes eerily in the semi-darkness
In daylight creepy-crawlies cleared the mess.

Peasants toiling and pheasants scratching
as I spy a cricket somersaulting

The cactus the desert's prickly femme-fatale
elsewhere a lone leaf floats in the canal

Prairie dogs go popping
while hares go hopping
and ladies go shopping

Swans have formed a fine V-line
The flora too is divine
as bees nosedive in bee-line.

Siesta seizes birdlovers too
Thus they miss out on the hoopoe's song
For the hoopoe, it does not sing on cue
since a bird may sing anytime to woo.

Green herbs and white mushrooms
Ah, birdie plumes and floral blooms

What a medley eh of contrasting scenery
Evening twilight and dawning greenery

Ah, wherever you go nature's so panoramic
While we make and take pictures  
God actually made what's so picturesque!

(The Art of Accents)

       In the spring of 1994, my sophomore year in college, I had a classmate who went by the name Brinkton. Brinkton claimed to be British, he spoke with a Cockney accent that at the time was new to me. In those days, in the melting pot of Los Angeles, there were a lot of students from Latin America and at the university level there was an even bigger diversity.
        Brinkton was the first chap I had met who was from England. I had made friends with people from Russia, Argentina, Peru, Chile, Egypt, Cameroon, and even one from South Africa. I began to learn a lot of different cultures. However Brinkton was a tough lad to connect with. He seemed a bit snooty, although he was always proper with us, his attitude just seemed to be uppity and snobbish at times. It was just the way he used to say things that seemed a bit…harsh. He always dressed nice, sometimes wearing a neatly pressed button down blue oxford and khakis, it made him look like a grad student.
        I used to like hearing him speak. One time when I said something about his “English” accent to which he responded with “Accent, what accent?”  Another time during class, as the professor was going over some formulas, Brinkton interrupted the professor in that pleasant yet presumptuous voice and proceeded to correct the professor in finding derivatives in “much more simplistic way.” The professor looked at him a bit perplexed, it was the very first time he had spoken out loud in class, the professor looked at the formula on the board, nodded and continued with the lecture without really addressing the fellow.

        Brinkton lived on west side, near Beverly Hills. He said his mom was Banker and his dad was an investor and they had moved to Los Angeles about three years ago from just outside of London (imagine all that in a Cockney accent that sometimes sounded a little exaggerated). However I began to have my suspicions.
        See, even to an L.A. kid accents were a thing. Go to the valley, you get the valley accents – “like oh my god, gag with a spoon”. Go to east L.A. and you get another accent – “hey homes let’s go get some tacos”. Go down to Crenshaw and Slauson and you get another accent from the brothas (but I won’t touch that one). Yet somehow after three years, Brinkton hadn’t picked up any accent at all.  Still I had my suspicions.

        One day, I was sitting down at a table in the Business & Economics building courtyard with my friend Gonzalo (from Argentina) and we were talking about fútbol. Gonzalo was excited because Argentina would be playing at the World Cup later that summer. At that time there was no major league in the States, so you either watched games from the Mexican league or La Liga games from Spain or Premier League matches. Over the years I had become a fan Barcelona and Manchester United and an up and coming young star by the name of Beckham. As Gonzalo and I chatted Brinkton walked by, he heard us talking about a Man U. game from a month ago, when Brinkton asked “what’s man you?”
        This fart and twat has been lying all this time, I said to myself.
        “David Beckham! Dude’s got skills and he’s only like nineteen and he’s already with Man. U” Gonzalo said in his Argentinian accent.
        “Sorry I don’t quite follow” Brinkton added.
        Fuckin’ fart and twat, I said to myself. Football is like a religion all over Europe and this dude doesn’t know what Man U. is? I decided to put him to the ultimate test.
        “I forgot you were from London. So are you an Arsenal or Chelsea fan?”
        Brinkton froze for a second. “Oh you mean soccer?”
        Busted!
        “No Brit in his right mind would call it soccer!” I said standing up out loud pointing at him. My voice echoed against the walls and windows of the building around the courtyard.
        “Sorry, sorry” he said in a mid-western accent. Then “Brinkton” finally spilled the beans.
        Turns out Brian Brinks was from Columbus Ohio. Brinkton was the name of a street he used to cross on his way to school. When he was fifteen, his family went to England on vacation for a week and he fell in love with the accent. They moved to L.A. about a year later when his mom got a job in a firm downtown. Brian created a new image for himself just to impress the girls.

The monster's inside,
pulling at your weak spots where you can't hide
he'll take you on a ride,
but let me warn you when you make that choice,
he'll be that voice in your head leaving you with dread,
all the time,
you'll think that your fine even become his friend,
tending to his every need you start to depend,
you can't defend cause this demon inside will stay,
he'll have his way,
as you obey,
you'll decay into the lowest you could be,
he'll laugh and whisper aren't you glad you met me?
You'll cry and shake,
thinking of how to escape,
it was just a mistake,
i didn't realise,
i just wanted to feel nice,
he'll reveal sides of you from the darkest place,
you can't face yourself,
your health is declining,
but the monster's meal is so enticing, real inviting, even exciting.. meth his buying,
got to keep him fed even when you said you'd had enough,
he'll tell you at the right time that your doing fine,
you deserve a treat call that dealer down the street,
admitting defeat you decide to go and get some,
see you can try and run from this scum but the monster is what you've become.

Unreal flecks of dark colors floated in the thick, stuffy blackness. Her small heart racing, she grasped her wrist and turned the watch to face her. She wanted to press the two little buttons for light, even though it barely glowed anymore when she was stuck under here by her angry brother.  
 
She needed to see something… promises in voiceless whispers floated to herself. “I will ask daddy to get a new battery next time we talk.” A sob rose into her throat. Last time 2 days ago she tried to do that.  
 
Forrest and Perl were too locked in discussion… their voices in various tones, and always the same reaction to her knock. “Dear Violet, honey, we are busy for just a few more minutes. I'm sorry. Just be patient.”
 
Brother Peter caught her and assumed the worst. That she would snitch about his secret magical powers. Hissing in her ear he found the worst image his young mind could invent, “Don't you dare talk! One day, there will be monsters under the stairs. I know that, because I'll see to it! I will be so powerful no one will ever boss me around again. I will make the monsters for all the children I know and hate, to find in dark closets, under stairs, and under their own beds!”
 
She couldn't tell if her ears burned more from his words, or the magical way they seemed to drag her into the dark stairwell.  
 
So today there were new "reasons" to be under the stairs. Again she pressed her trembling fingers against the watch. This time the little face lit up dimly, followed by a blinding flashing light, that cut into the back of her throbbing, unprepared skull. Many colors flashed before her and a light, sweet voice range out… “My, my, this will be a crowded landing.”  
 
Sweet flowers and a warm breeze followed as the light dimmed and a pair of lady hands steadied themselves on her small shoulders, near gown covered knees. The last thing noticed was the pink halo of hair backlit by the dimming rainbow of once blinding sparkles….shifting green in one final flash, leaving the stairwell dark again.
 
Peppermint breath caught Violet’s attention… it was inches from her nose! Jerking her head back she forgot the oak steps were so close behind her head. Bang! “Aahh!” Violet shrieked and so did another voice. A purple light suddenly illuminated a beautiful face just two inches from her. “Violet light! My stars! I thought only the boy was magical! Obviously they didn't make it here before your mother gave birth.”  
 
Bonnie the birth fairy lowered her wand and the stairwell went dark again. “A storm is coming, and so is an invasion. I need to speak to your parents, now! Before I can't return for another ten years, because this is magical gateway storm that will close travel for a long time. This is our only shot at letting the grump-worlders prepare. I have only 5 minutes or so, before I must depart.”
 
Violet suddenly bristled at the familiar term. “Why not use ‘non-magical’ instead of “grump-worlders” and not sound so fake? Mom and Dad might have magic but they don't sound stuck up when they talk. Why even help such common so-called grumps, if you can't even use respect in your language about them?”
 
Bonnie wasn't ready to hear that. “Why not? You aren't a grump!”  
 
No one could see her narrowed expression but her tone was clear. “I was until just one minute ago. I thought the spell would protect me. Can't you just treat all people like equals, no matter their powers?”
 
Bonnie’s tone softened “Dear, did they tell you they protected you from magic with a spell? That's just not how it works. But I can tell they wanted to protect you, alright. Magic children is just the risk they faced by living in ethereal realms when they had you. I know they tried to leave, before it was too late, but, dear… it's just an old witches tale that if baby comes here as a newborn they can reliably receive a grump-maker spell. You just have to be born here for it to work every time. They will know better themselves, soon enough. My wand already picked up your violet aura. The change will manifest soon.”
 
Violet reached out and grasped Bonnie’s arm in earnest, pleading, “Please, just don't tell my brother, Peter!”  
 
Suddenly, from the draft in the cupboard door into the stairwell a young,  sinister male voice was heard, approaching with his clomping steps. “Who are you talking to, Violet?”
 
Hastily, and before the little door opened, Bonnie leaned forward and whispered, “don't worry! I understand!”  
 
Bluish-white daylight poured in, common daylight, bouncing in from walls and floors around the surrounding room. Again, it felt overwhelmingly bright but welcome after the stuffy black hour she spent, waiting for her mother to get back from an outdoor weeding session on the cliff side near their cozy lighthouse.  
 
She should have offered to help, and she wouldn't have been driven in there by Peter’s foul mood in the first place, but lately Violet had been using all her spare time painting, whenever she wasn't catching up on her often neglected chores, chatting in the study with her Dad, going over magical history with his books spread across his desk, or being punished for next to nothing by her babysitting brother. Painting and singing with her music blasting, unaware of her brother’s temper, about to flare over her “racket.” So mother failed to get gardening help, and she ended up feeling like she half deserved her poor treatment, which, of course, couldn't be farther from the truth.