Young Writers Society

Author's note: This is a VERY rough draft to a dream I had the other night. It has been revised from my 2am notations. It is likely to be the next novel I write after I finish Reflecting Hearts. Reviewers, does this take you into the time period? Can you vividly see the scene? I am working on descriptions, world/character/story building, and pacing. My strong suit is poetry, my pride and joy. Along with formal papers related to my job or college, writing poetry tends to feel easy and natural to me. However, writing stories, short or long, do not. Is there too much slang? Do you get a feel for the genre and does it intrigue you? Is there something here worth continuing? Thanks and enjoy :)

Name's Charlotte Ella Johnson, though most folks call me Lottie. My name, it's got that '60s flair, inspired by my mom's deep respect for the strong black women of the '40s.

Mama used to talk about these amazing women from then, like Lena Horne and Josephine Baker. They were pioneers, breaking down barriers and shaking up the status quo. Mama made sure their spirit lived on in me. She'd say, "Lottie, you're part of this generation that's gonna bring about change, just like the women who inspired your name."

Daddy, he was a real hero of World War II, and he had a whole other thing going on. He'd been through it all during the war, and his stories were straight out of a movie. But what set him apart was his love for everything spooky, from classic monsters to mind-bending thrillers. That's where I picked up my thing for all things mysterious. When I was chillin’ in my room, I would read mystery novels, Nancy Drew being my ace.

As for me, I was a bit of a spectacle compared to other teenage girls my age, not that it bothered me any. That day, I leaned against the kiosk, my long, unruly hair swept to one side with a headband as I absentmindedly twirled the ends. My job was to serve the popcorn to guests if they bought some and help the main cashier when she was extra busy. My clothes changed with my mood. Each day was like a jack-in-the-box of what Lottie would be. Sometimes, I dressed like the boys, even if they wouldn't pipe down with their rude comments. The girls only seemed to want to be nice to me when I wore a minidress or bell bottoms and turtleneck. And despite the attention, I kinda liked it that way.

As I sat behind the ticket counter at the local movie theater, the old cash register softly dinging as I counted change and the jukebox playing rock 'n' roll tunes in the corner, the overwhelming scent of buttered popcorn practically gagged my tastebuds. I reached into my pocket, searching for something to distract my senses, and found a stick of bubble-mint gum. I unwrapped it, the vibrant packaging a burst of color in the dimly lit ticket stand. I popped a piece into my mouth, eager to freshen my senses and escape the omnipresent aroma. Stacey, the bubbly main cashier, shot me a glare as I rolled my eyes and turned back to my work. She greeted the next customer with her over-the-top, high-pitched voice.

The theater was getting a lot more attention these days than the local drive-in, which was usually the hot spot in the middle of summer. But, in the shadow of that recent murder, folks didn't want to be caught out in the dark of night. So, they flocked to our theater, their conversations hushed down more than usual, even as the neon glow from the marquee painted their faces with movie magic. This wasn't the summer they had expected, and the cinema offered an escape, a brief respite from the unsettling darkness that had descended upon our town.

When the night dragged a bit, I took a break. Bored out of my wits, I gazed across the street at the movie theater building, its marquee illuminated with the titles of the latest flicks. "Psycho" was up there, and "To Kill a Mockingbird" too. It was a strange mix, like the people lining up for tickets.

The line, illuminated by the marquee and street lamps, was a small-scale version of our quirky ole town. Young and old, well mostly young, bunched in a row, some in big groups, some solo, and a fair share of couples.

As the line grew longer and my break was coming to an end, I begrudgingly stamped out my cigarette onto the sidewalk. The smoke hung in the air a sec, a lingering rebel against the suffocating normalcy that often surrounded me.

Returning to the kiosk, Stacy’s smile greeted me as I prepared to help shorten the line. I guess she was tired of holding down the fort alone. She was one of those gals who seemed to exist in a realm of her own, with her physique echoing that certain timeless allure. Her figure, subtly reminiscent of the curves and grace of Brigitte Bardot, had a way of turning heads. With large blonde hair impeccably styled in a bouffant, she had that same classic Hollywood vibe that matched her big personality. A slight gap in her teeth added an extra touch, giving her an air of confident nonconformity, something I could oddly appreciate, even if her impeccable appearance occasionally grated on me.

With a resigned sigh, I called out the line to split so we could service two lines at once and hopefully get it to cool out quick. Stacy flashed another smile, probably happy the load got lighter. It seemed like the kind of day where our differences were destined to collide, just like a good old-fashioned movie plot twist.

As I popped a bubble, I eavesdropped on a conversation from the young couple standing in front of the movie posters. The girl, about my age, declared to the boy standing next to her, "It's absolutely dreadful what happened to that poor lady."

The boy, who didn't seem to care much, retorted, "She shouldn't have been up in Hill Creek. That's just asking for trouble, you know. Plus, it’s probably some phony story to scare us from cruisin’ there."

"Michael! Don't be such a naysayer. I’m a real with-it gal and read it in the paper," the girl scolded.

“The paper’s meant to be a drag! Not what any girl like you should be stickin’ her nose in.” The boy put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her towards the line.

I shook my head, my outward agreement with her. It was a tough world out there, and Hill Creek or any other remote location wasn't a place you'd want to be at night. Sometimes, the folks around here didn't realize the dangers that lurked in the shadows.

The couple approached the ticket counter as we worked through the line, and I greeted them with a forced smile. "Good evening," I said, "The Starlit Cinema is pleased you chose us for your movie today. What will you be seeing tonight?"

The boy, with a careless shrug, pointed at one of the movie posters. "We'll take two tickets for 'Westside Story."

My heart sank. 'Westside Story” was one of those overly sappy, unrealistic romance flicks that seemed to draw young couples like them in. I snubbed their pick of movies. It probably would have them dreaming of an idealized love, while real-life love was anything but. My only example of love like that was my momma and pop. In the new age of free-love, the Romeo and Juliet trope was a dying breed.

Despite my personal disapproval, I processed their tickets. I was only working here a few weekends a month to help because my family's struggles but daddy didn’t like me telling people that. He was disabled from his service and received meager assistance, and my mama’s job at the local library didn't bring in much either. Times were tough, and we often struggled to make ends meet, sometimes even for groceries. I enjoyed being an employed woman, one of few in my high school, even Stacey was older than me, although I didn’t know by how much.

So, I smiled politely and handed them their tickets, secretly wishing they'd find a movie more in touch with reality. After all, life in our small town was far from the dreamy teenage romance portrayed on the silver screen.