Happy Sunday! Whew, I just made this story time. I will be alternating weeks this summer and featuring a new story every-other Sunday. Lawn Jockeys remain popular in the South even though they carry such negative connotations. This short fiction was written for a 100 word micro-fiction challenge. I had the help of a good writing friend to assist me with the painful cuts on this piece. What is left, I hope you enjoy.
No Trace of Blackness
Father and son cross the lawn of the estate each carrying one bucket of colonial white to touch up the columns; the ladder, on loan, links their arms.
They’ve never painted on this side of Calhoun. By the steps, a lawn jockey, red lips complimenting a cardinal vest; he’s been serving for a century. The pair strokes in silence, fearing “jigaboo chatter” might upset the owners.
Half-an-hour wait in the Carolina sun to receive half pay. Exiting, they swipe the exposed skin of Jocko converting his hands to clinched white stubs. Father and son leave no trace of blackness behind.
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