A post-Civil War snippet with a salesman, his niece and a cart filled with voodoo dolls. A silly drabble, not very serious, and mostly plot-less. Read at your own risk.
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"Lookee 'ere, lookee 'ere! Dolls a dollar apiece!" His voice carried over the bustling crowd, seemingly tireless and inexhaustible. Beside him, a small girl held a cart containing what looked tens and dozens of patchwork dolls, pins stuck in their fragile, torn bodies. Some people spared small glances at the dolls, but most walked on, their noses high up in the air. The salesman scratched his bald head, befuddled with confusion.
"Tha' chap tol' me tha' theese were pop'lar among them genteel folk nowadays." He drawled, as if he was having trouble saying what he thought. "I dun' geddit."
"What don't you get, Uncle?" The girl was ten years old, with unnervingly intelligent dark eyes that peered into the soul of people they stared at - which was probably why Mitchell Hutchinson was having trouble even looking at her. "What are these dolls for, anyway?"
"You young folk dun' know nothin' much, do ya?" The salesman shook his head, still not sparing any looks for his unusual niece. "Theese 'ere are vedo - vado - vo'dou dolls 'ere, see?" He picked up one and shook it thoroughly - the young girl winced as a button fell off the doll and landed sharply in front of her. "It's for dec'ration, see? You hang 'em on a wall or some sor' rubbish like tha', at least ah thenk."
The girl remained silent as he threw it back roughly into the cart, tearing the poor thing up even more. "Mikey would've in - in - inval'able 'ere. 'E 'ad a talent, 'e did." He scowled as a ragamuffin blew a raspberry at him and ran away, not giving him a chance to even flick the kid lightly with the cane gripped firmly in his roughened hands.
However, little Reena Hutchinson had more on her mind than some dirty little street urchin who had blown a raspberry at her bald-headed uncle, and she started to impatiently tug at the man's coat.
"Were you talking about Papa, Uncle Mitch?"
He scowled and tore his coat away from her insistent tugging. "Dun' do 'tha' ag'in. This coat 'ere is expens've, it is." He brushed it vigorously with a hand. "And yes, I was talkin' about that worthless old Paps o' yours. I'll say 'e had a talen', but 'e di'nt 'ave the barkin' brains for it, tha's for sure."
"What are you talking about, Uncle Mitch?"
"Your Paps, 'e could talk a pers'n off a cliff but still snaitch a couple a dollars off 'im. But wha does your Paps do? He goes and en - enlists 'imself in the War, and see what 'appened! An' wha' for? Indep'ndence? He di'nt ged any indep'ndence for 'imself, an' not even for 'is family. Hah! Indep'endence. Now, let's 'ave a look at - oi! Where is tha' cart?!"
The answer wasn't far off - the cart was slowly rolling away from them in the chokingly thick crowd, and guess who was driving it? The little ragamuffin who had dared to blow a raspberry at ol' Mitchel Hutchinson, that was who.
"Oi, get back 'ere, ya li'l guttersnipe! Tha's MY cart!"
Revised on 2/24/2010
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