Lady Blackwing Gets Her Moniker © 2022 by Devorah Fox

Mercedes jogged down the sidewalk along Lemon Tree Street and smelled bacon frying. She glanced over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes, sharpening her X-ray vision. The brick wall of the single-story residence vaporized, revealing a harried mom standing at a stove cooking breakfast for two youngsters. They chomped at the bit, no doubt impatient to go out to play, to squeeze the most out of what remained of their summer vacation before school started.

Mercedes too dreaded the new semester. She enjoyed classes and was eager to earn more credits toward a degree she hoped to achieve in this lifetime. But she didn’t look forward to days crammed with class and homework as well as her job at the Kaffeteria.

She jogged on. The next house she passed exhaled a “springtime fresh” breath. Mercedes’ eyes bored into the home where a senior lady in her laundry room folded linens scented by a dryer sheet.

Mercedes chuckled. If only she did possess X-ray vision instead of an overactive imagination. She didn’t have superpowers at all.

Unless what occurred when she wrote counted. She didn’t want to think about that. It was part of her misgivings about the new school year. Her assignments would require writing and who knew what would happen?

Though she had plenty of time over the summer, she had been afraid to do any creative writing. Mercedes told herself she needn’t worry. She wrote plenty of shopping lists, emails, and online posts without any surprising consequences.

The difference was that the spot behind her ear hadn’t itched.

Months ago, she accidentally stabbed herself in the head with a pencil. Not any pencil, a Blackwing pencil, the same brand used by renowned writers like John Steinbeck and Vladimir Nabokov. The wound didn’t become infected, but the jab nevertheless left her with baffling side effects. Every now and then, the Lead in Her Head, the graphite point embedded in her skin, would burn. The only way to soothe the irritation was to grab that pencil and her special notebook and write about what was on her mind.

It seemed a simple remedy. The problem was the repercussions. She didn’t know what to do about those.

Mercedes crossed to the other side of Lemon Tree Street and jogged back to Pulaski Avenue.

Three people gathered at the bus stop. Mercedes recognized two of them; she passed them most mornings. Though they stood close enough for conversation, like people in an elevator, they each gazed off into the distance. She caught a whiff of the perfume the young woman wore. It smelled like the cosmetic counter of the discount store from which she likely bought that drab budget suit. The man by her side was in a tie and shirt sleeves and held his jacket slung over his shoulder. Mercedes picked up the scent of his aftershave. On his way to a job interview?

Mercedes figured the teenager was taking the bus to the mall to hang with his other deadbeat friends. She scolded herself for her judgmental profiling, but his attire raised her suspicions. Those oversized cargo pants with the knee-level crotch might be a fashion statement, or they could provide ideal places to stash shoplifted merchandise, like those pricey athletic shoes of his. The bandana tied around his forehead could serve to soak up sweat, or it could be a gang insignia. His ball cap pulled low over his forehead threw his face into shadow. And he wore a hoodie although the waning days of a Yankee August were unseasonably hot.

A city bus approached the stop and slowed, its air brakes releasing with a signature fart. Mercedes chirped “Good morning” as she passed the waiting riders. The woman and man smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. The teen was far too engrossed in his cell phone conversation. “Gonna do it tonight,” he told his listener.

https://www.draft2digital.com/book/849225
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(ISBN: 9798201166144)

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