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"The Auction" (the 101st ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Auction" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Jan 15, 2010 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Auction By glenlee10@sky.com (Entry #5) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| When my editor sent me to Savannah,
he told me not to let anyone know I was a reporter and as I eventually found
myself in a very rough, boisterous crowd, I was glad to follow his advice.
I was sent to cover the sale of hundreds of negroes belonging to Mr.Pierce Butler of Philedelphia. The city was buzzing with folk and I would have found it impossible to find a bed had lodgings not already been arranged for me. Being young and keen I spent much of my time listening to other people’s conversations from which I was able to gather information for my report. There were posters everywhere advertising the event; Apparently, the slaves that were up for auction had never been sold before; most had been born and spent their lives on one of the two plantations belonging to an old family estate that was being broken up. I purchased a catalogue for my use and found that 429 ‘chattels’ were listed for sale in about 130 separate lots. The rules of the auction stated that the slaves would be sold as ‘families’ which would not be separated. The weather on that first day was cold and wet and I was thankful to take shelter in the midst of the crowd in the sale room. It was a very lively crowd, a mixture of gentlemen and ruffians. Much drink was being consumed and as the day wore on the rowdy element became somewhat threatening; their guns and their knives always, it seemed to me, within easy reach of their hands. I heard much talk about what would happen should they, “ketch themselves a Yankee newspapah sneak.” Two such sneaks were in fact identified that day; Thompson Doesticks of the New York Tribune and Mr. Pike from the Toledo Blade. Mr.Pike was ‘persuaded’ to leave the sale, despite his willingness to fight for his right to be there. Doesticks, it was said, was frightened but nevertheless stuck around, pretending to be a slave trader. When I was asked my opinion about these spies by a cigar waving ruffian, I agreed with everything he said, nodding my head vigorously and using as few words as possible lest my accent should give me away. The slaves were to be sold to pay off Mr.Butler’s debts, many of which had been obtained through gambling. It was noted that the clothes the slaves wore and their few meager possessions were included in the sale of that individual. I heard one portly gentleman comment on the strangeness of this idea, even though it would obviously be to the benefit of the buyer. “I wouldn’t sell the harness with the horse,” he said. “So why should the clothes go with the negro?” He shook his head, muttering about, “these damned modern ways.” It had taken several days to assemble the slaves as they came from two separate plantations. With few exceptions, they were very dark, their Congolese colouring undiluted. Most of them looked sad and bewildered. It was no wonder, as they’d only ever known the one home and one community of people and now they had to go away, never to meet their friends and neighbors again. They had been confined indoors since their arrival and were quiet, almost listless, in contrast to the disorder amongst the traders and the curious, who wished to inspect the goods before purchase. The negroes were examined constantly. Traders pinched their muscles, forced them to walk up and down and pulled open their mouths to examine their teeth. I believe that cows and horses are treated with more respect but they submitted patiently to the rough handling and even when a man’s wife was treated in a shameful fashion in his presence, in a way which a white woman would have considered indecent, the husband bore this terrible business with dignity. I had one bad moment before the sale started. I had made no comment when a slave driver nearby said to the bewhiskered, drink-fuddled man standing alongside him, “You can manage most niggers by lickin’ ‘em and givin’ ‘em a taste of the hot iron once in a while when they’re extra ugly.” Cigar smoke puffed into my face from a bystander made me cough, which attracted the driver’s attention to me. As he continued with his rant, he watched me closely. “If a nigger really sets himself up against me, I jest get my pistol and shoot him right down.” Men on all sides went quiet. I found myself in the eye of a small oasis of calm. “Well, aint that the best way?” the driver spoke only to me. The handle of his pistol peeped through his open coat. He scratched his belly with his right hand. “Aint it?” he demanded in a louder voice. “”Of course it is,” I said hurriedly. “Of course it is.” “You agree with me then.” He continued to probe. “You jest shoot ‘em right down if’n they gets ugly?” I nodded. I tried to smile my agreement but the smile slid from my face. He didn’t believe me. Just kept a-scratching at his bulging belly while the men nearby began to inch backwards, isolating me. But luck was on my side, even if no one in the crowd was. Before the situation could deteriorate more, the auctioneer climbed onto his rostrum. His loud voice, recounting the terms of the sale, diverted everyone’s attention. I sidled away. The weather had turned foul. The sale was held in a three sided building. Unhindered across the race track, the wind was fierce and cold and the rain lashed into the sale room. The auctioneer, Mr.Walsh, was a large, jovial man with a red face and disheveled dress. He knew his business though and joked with most of the bidders, keeping the interest in the proceedings going despite the unpleasantness of the day. I’d chosen to hide in the midst of a very dense section of the crowd and continued to eavesdrop on the conversations of others. A better class of gentleman, with a sparkling shirt pin and polished boots, was talking to an equally well turned out colleague. “A good policy that,” I heard him say, “to sell the negras as families. It’ll help Mr.Butler dispose of the dross nobody would want to buy.” I made shorthand notes on my catalogue, which did indeed show many of the slaves as being, ‘ruptured’ or otherwise infirm. A series of quiet men caught my eye. They were tidily dressed in somber, unremarkable clothing and calm in their movements and stepped unhindered amongst the slaves. These men ignored the male slaves but questioned the women and youthful girls closely. In some undefined way, the actions of these white men were more distasteful to me than the thugs who’d prefer to take an iron to an, “okward nigger”. The first lot under the hammer was a man, George, 27, a prime cotton planter; his wife, Sue, 26, a prime rice planter and their children, George Jr. who was 4, and Harry, 2. They fetched a price of $620 each; an amount of $2480 that would go towards paying off Mr. Butler’s gambling debts. Throughout the proceedings, from his position on the auction block, George held Sue’s hand and stared above the heads of the crowd. The children huddled close to their mother and little Harry, I noted, was so frightened, he’d wet his drawers. And so it went for two days, sad lot after sad lot. Lovers Jeffrey, chattel number 319, a prime cotton hand and Dorcas, chattel number 278 were parted. Jeffrey was sold first and after Jeffrey’s pleading, his new master agreed to buy Dorcas too. But Dorcas was put into a lot with a family of four, an expense that Jeffrey’s master was either unable or unwilling to afford and Jeffrey’s sweetheart went to another buyer, to work on the cotton fields of South Carolina. Jeffry was to go to the rice plantation of the Great Swamp. I doubt they will meet again in this life. I was on the edge of the crowd when Jeffrey snatched off his hat and spoke to his new master. “I’se very much obliged, Mas’r, to you for trying to help me. I knows you would have done it if you could. Thank you, Mas’r, thank you. But it’s hard, berry hard.” Jeffrey broke down and had to cover his tearful face with his battered old hat, his heart broken. Jeffrey’s predicament was not noticed by anyone else and the next instant, a wave of great hilarity swept through the crowd. Violet, chattel number 112, a rice hand, aged 55, was sold for $250. She was sick, possibly consumptive. “Cheap gal, that!” one trader shouted at the lucky buyer. “A good bargain. For a month or two maybe!” Guy, chattel number 419, in comparison, described as a ‘prime rice man aged 20’, with no encumbrances, was sold for £1280. Disheartened by everything I saw and heard, I left the sale just as the second day was drawing to a close, worrying over the report I would write and fearing that the readership would not believe the half of the depravity I saw on the one side and the dignity I saw on the other. As I left the race course, the sun struggled its way through the rain clouds. I saw a crowd of negroes clustering around a white man and asked a trader, who was just about to mount his horse, who the white man was. “That’s Mr.Pierce Butler,” he said, “the man responsible for the last few day’s events. You might have noticed,” he scowled as he spoke, “there were no representatives of any of the old planter families here? Even though I have benefited from the sale, it is a disgusting thing to have done, breaking the tradition of never selling a negro born on one of the old plantations. I doubt those families will have much social intercourse with Mr.Butler from now on.” He rode away and I made my way through the mud to the crowd, where Mr.Butler was handing out a dollar to each of his ex-slaves. To make his largesse seem even the greater, each man, woman and child was given four, shiny, newly-minted 25 cent pieces. Mr.Butler’s gesture cost him 429 dollars. The sale of his ‘assets’ netted him $303,850. I left Savannah, sick to my heart. My editor thought I’d learned many valuable lessons on the trip about the cruelty and harshness of the world. And I suppose I had, but though necessary, the lessons, had been hard earned. There is a postscript. That same year, after Christmas, I returned to my office on 26th December. The editor dropped the previous day’s New York Times on my desk. It was open at an article entitled, The article told the tale of Colonel Tom Pate, a trader from Vicksburg, who’d bought 220 slaves at the Savannah auction. Amongst them had been a man, his wife and his two sisters. Pate had ignored the guarantee that families should not be split and he’d sold the sisters on to another trader, Pat Somers. Negro slaves have few legal rights but the ones they do have are well protected so when Mr. Somers discovered the guarantee, he took the girls back to Pate and demanded a refund. There was a quarrel. Somers was shot dead. Just over a week later, Somer’s nephew killed Pat but in the resulting fight, sustained wounds from which he too died. The feud that ensued continued until every male with the name Pate had been killed. It is ironic. If Mr.Butler had waited one more year before selling his slaves, he would not have received even $1, because of the war that liberated the two sisters and every other slave. My editor suggested I might like to write an article on the later events. I must say, I was only too happy to oblige. |
| The Auction By nv_desert_rat@nvbell.net (Entry #1) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| I stop at the curtain shrouding the
auction room from the casual passerby, the heavy vermilian material as
sound-proof as a cork wall. Not that it matters… the auction is silent.
Before entering I part the curtain and look inside, judging how well the secret of what was to be auctioned this night had been kept, by who was seated inside. Apparently…, it hadn't been kept at all. No eyes meet mine as I walk to the reserved seat in the exact center of the room, but the auctioneer's voice trembles as he realizes my presence confirms the rumor. The Party I front for doesn't waste his time at pointless biddings. Barely moving my head I glance around, sizing up who is there, who might be interested in The Piece. A white face with too much deep red lipstick looks pointedly bored, and I acknowledge her presence with a tiny nod. The lipstick almost twists into a smile. She's smart and careful and fronts for people better left unangered, but they would have little interest in The Piece. Thereafter I ignore her. More dangerous is the little bald man to my right. He fronts for no one, and his pockets are very, very deep. Some say they reach into the heart of the Mint itself. He has been known to buy articles of no interest at all to himself, simply to keep someone else from getting them. I slowly stroke my Van Dyke, once, and, apparently seeing me through his left ear, he returns the sign. At least, we are currently neutral. A number of others dot the room, enough to cause me some concern. I know most of them and I'm sure I can outbid them, but more than one could drive the price beyond what I would happily pay. At one point I give the auctioneer a small nod, placing a bid of $200,000.00 on a worthless piece of French statuary. Almost immediately bids pour in, as the Hangers-on think to buy it out from under me, who think my bid gives it value. I dodn't bid again and it sells for almost $500,000.00. I see the slight signs of humor among those who know me, who know I had thrown out a hook and caught up some ground-crawlers. I sit through a seemingly endless stream of junk, amused by the things some people waste their money on. Even Redlips buys an ornate birdbath, and, perhaps feeling my gaze, she shrugs slightly, telling me by the motion that she will sell it to tourists for an outrageous profit. If that's her pleasure, sobeit. At last they bring out The Piece. It's smaller than I had been led to believe… old, wooden, and poorly painted. Luckily, it isn't the quality of The Piece that makes it valuable, but the name of the carver. From the lack of interest it brings, it seems no one knows it's what I'm after. I nod a bid, smiling as if it's another joke bid. A tiny ripple of amusement sweeps the room, smashing against the unsmiling rock that is the bald man. He looks, openly, from me to The Piece and then back again, and I know the smile hadn't fooled him. But he chooses not to bid. Which causes me to wonder. He is perhaps almost as much an expert on these rarities as I myself, and yet he barely looks at The Piece. What does he know that I don't? Is he staying away from it as a politeness to me and He Whom I Represent? That doesn't sit well, and I discard the possibility. What then? I rise from my seat and walk slowly toward the podium, mentally weighing and measuring The Piece as I walk. I've studied pictures of it until I could almost carve it myself, and something isn't right. Two feet from the podium, I stop. I motion the auctioneer to turn it, slowly, and he complies. Twice, three times it turns, and something in my gut knows I'm right. It isn't The Piece. One small detail, one misplaced slice of a carving knife, is wrong. I know, then, what the bald man is doing here, and why he hadn't bid. It was HE who had provided the original, switched the copy for it, and was probably intending to later offer the actual piece to the buyer of this imitation. Rather than having it known he had bought an imitation, the buyer would probably pay again for the original. This puts me in a dangerous position. If I declare it to be false, I would create a dangerous foe, probably for life. If I continue to bid, how do I explain it to my Backer? If I simply stop bidding, it would be taken as a statement of the non-value of the item, with the same result as declaring it false. I walk slowly back to my seat, my hands driven deep into my pockets. What no one can see, is my fingers in my pocket, pushing buttons on my cell phone. As I sit down the phone buzzes loudly, and I grab at various pockets as if unsure where it is, finding it at last and holding it to my ear. I whisper, just loudly enough to be heard, that I can't leave, The Item hasn't been brought out yet. I rise from the chair, slam the phone closed, shake my head in obvious disgust, and start to leave. As I turn to go I glance at the bald man and I'm surprised to see a slight smile on his lips. He touches his forehead in salute and I nod back, wondering if he had just made a lucky guess about my departure, or if, maybe, … most unpleasant thought! … he had followed my mental wanderings very closely and very accurately. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine, as I hurry away from the auction. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place (tie): #1, #3 Third place: #5 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Auction nv_desert_rat@nvbell.net |
#1 of 5 Runner-up |
| 997 words | |
| I stop at the curtain shrouding the auction room from
the casual passerby, the heavy vermilian material as sound-proof as a cork
wall. Not that it matters… the auction is silent. Before entering I part the curtain and look inside, judging how well the secret of what was to be auctioned this night had been kept, by who was seated inside. Apparently…, it hadn't been kept at all. No eyes meet mine as I walk to the reserved seat in the exact center of the room, but the auctioneer's voice trembles as he realizes my presence confirms the rumor. The Party I front for doesn't waste his time at pointless biddings. Barely moving my head I glance around, sizing up who is there, who might be interested in The Piece. A white face with too much deep red lipstick looks pointedly bored, and I acknowledge her presence with a tiny nod. The lipstick almost twists into a smile. She's smart and careful and fronts for people better left unangered, but they would have little interest in The Piece. Thereafter I ignore her. More dangerous is the little bald man to my right. He fronts for no one, and his pockets are very, very deep. Some say they reach into the heart of the Mint itself. He has been known to buy articles of no interest at all to himself, simply to keep someone else from getting them. I slowly stroke my Van Dyke, once, and, apparently seeing me through his left ear, he returns the sign. At least, we are currently neutral. A number of others dot the room, enough to cause me some concern. I know most of them and I'm sure I can outbid them, but more than one could drive the price beyond what I would happily pay. At one point I give the auctioneer a small nod, placing a bid of $200,000.00 on a worthless piece of French statuary. Almost immediately bids pour in, as the Hangers-on think to buy it out from under me, who think my bid gives it value. I dodn't bid again and it sells for almost $500,000.00. I see the slight signs of humor among those who know me, who know I had thrown out a hook and caught up some ground-crawlers. I sit through a seemingly endless stream of junk, amused by the things some people waste their money on. Even Redlips buys an ornate birdbath, and, perhaps feeling my gaze, she shrugs slightly, telling me by the motion that she will sell it to tourists for an outrageous profit. If that's her pleasure, sobeit. At last they bring out The Piece. It's smaller than I had been led to believe… old, wooden, and poorly painted. Luckily, it isn't the quality of The Piece that makes it valuable, but the name of the carver. From the lack of interest it brings, it seems no one knows it's what I'm after. I nod a bid, smiling as if it's another joke bid. A tiny ripple of amusement sweeps the room, smashing against the unsmiling rock that is the bald man. He looks, openly, from me to The Piece and then back again, and I know the smile hadn't fooled him. But he chooses not to bid. Which causes me to wonder. He is perhaps almost as much an expert on these rarities as I myself, and yet he barely looks at The Piece. What does he know that I don't? Is he staying away from it as a politeness to me and He Whom I Represent? That doesn't sit well, and I discard the possibility. What then? I rise from my seat and walk slowly toward the podium, mentally weighing and measuring The Piece as I walk. I've studied pictures of it until I could almost carve it myself, and something isn't right. Two feet from the podium, I stop. I motion the auctioneer to turn it, slowly, and he complies. Twice, three times it turns, and something in my gut knows I'm right. It isn't The Piece. One small detail, one misplaced slice of a carving knife, is wrong. I know, then, what the bald man is doing here, and why he hadn't bid. It was HE who had provided the original, switched the copy for it, and was probably intending to later offer the actual piece to the buyer of this imitation. Rather than having it known he had bought an imitation, the buyer would probably pay again for the original. This puts me in a dangerous position. If I declare it to be false, I would create a dangerous foe, probably for life. If I continue to bid, how do I explain it to my Backer? If I simply stop bidding, it would be taken as a statement of the non-value of the item, with the same result as declaring it false. I walk slowly back to my seat, my hands driven deep into my pockets. What no one can see, is my fingers in my pocket, pushing buttons on my cell phone. As I sit down the phone buzzes loudly, and I grab at various pockets as if unsure where it is, finding it at last and holding it to my ear. I whisper, just loudly enough to be heard, that I can't leave, The Item hasn't been brought out yet. I rise from the chair, slam the phone closed, shake my head in obvious disgust, and start to leave. As I turn to go I glance at the bald man and I'm surprised to see a slight smile on his lips. He touches his forehead in salute and I nod back, wondering if he had just made a lucky guess about my departure, or if, maybe, … most unpleasant thought! … he had followed my mental wanderings very closely and very accurately. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine, as I hurry away from the auction. |
|
| The Auction David Griffin dave@windsweptpress.com |
#2 of 5 |
| 1805 words | |
| It’s just so peaceful in the morning. No one is
out and about, and all I ever hear are the trains and factories running all
night over on the west side, out Whitesboro Street. And in the winter, the
swish of tire rims when a hack is pulled past by a weary horse. And, you know,
me and Da need the money, so before school I run down to the Herald and get me
a bag of papers and sign the slip to pay tomorrow and take the whole shebang up
Genesee Street, selling the news to whoever will give me a couple of pennies
for the paper. I bring home the coins to Da and he counts them out and gives me
the money that’ll go to the Herald next day. He always has me put it in
the old teapot on the window sill for tomorrow. It’s been a cold winter and if Da didn’t drag me out of bed in the morning, I wouldn’t be out there slogging through the slush and snow, I can tell you. And, Jesus, I got a welt on the back of my shoulders from Brother Barnabas at the ‘cademy, and he keeps hitting me there every time I fall asleep reading the catty-kism. I most often sell all the papers by the time I get to the court house, so I don’t always get up to Genesee Hill. But that morning it was freezing and not many people were on the streets. So I walked all the way to the fountain at Oneida Square, and by that time I could smell the smoke. Then all hell broke loose as the team of horses and men from the No. 1 fire company came pounding by me and headed up Genesee Street. Holy Cripes, a real fire engine! I threw down the rest of the papers and I ran like the dickens to catch up. By the time I got to the Genesee Flats, the people were trying to get off the front of the place from the balconies. Seven stories of apartments makes for a lot of people. Now, I’m thinkin’ I wish I’d gone home instead. Nobody should ever have to see people dying like that. I still have dreams about it. Yeah, I know … but that poor lady. I heard her head crack open. Sometimes when I’m dozing off in school, I’ll hear that crack and my stomach will get queasy if it’s just before lunch. I’m a good reader, and I’ve read everything in the papers about the fire, at least in the Herald, because that’s the paper I sell. From what’s in print, you’d think everyone in The Flats got called on by the management and politely told about the fire, and pretty please just get dressed and meet across the street for tea. But that’s not what happened. Or if it did, it’s only because nobody seemed to know whether they were dealing with a big fire or a small one. Not even the firemen. When I came up to the building, all I saw were firemen in the lantern lights. They were scurrying around and they didn’t look like nobody had told them the fire was right in front of them and they should be doing something about it. I didn’t see any flames, not at first. But what I heard was awful, people screaming and crying and yelling for help. I think I got a little rattled, and wondered where the hell the voices were coming from. It was dark and there was smoke everywhere. For a second, I wondered if all the voices were up in the trees. Then a trunk of clothes crashed down and split open about ten feet from where I was standing. Just dropped right out of the sky! I looked up and saw coats and shoes and a lady’s dress floating down at me. They must’ve been trying to save their belongings. And then, over at the far end, I saw a man dangling on what looked like a string of sheets or clothing. I had to laugh, thinking it was funny. I wanted to shout at the folks to go back inside. There weren’t any flames. I thought this would be just a smoker … like maybe someone’s couch was burning and they’d haul it out in the snow in a few minutes, and everyone could have a good laugh and go back to bed. It was getting lighter now, and people were still crawling down from the balconies like they were a circus troop. Some were wailing and shouting and trying to find each other. One lady kept grabbing me and asking if I’d seen her brother. She must’ve asked me ten times. It shook me, and made me afraid again. Oh, those poor people hanging from the windows and balconies. The smoke was awful smelling, not like a campfire. And the crackling and popping seemed to come from a long way off, from the same direction as a lady’s voice screaming for someone named Harry, I remember. And the moaning. I thought it came from a woman with no shoes standing near me, but it was the wind being sucked through the trees into the fire. Two firemen ran up to me and started yelling about fire engines. I thought they wanted to tell me something, but they just happened to stop in front of me. They were arguing about whether to call in more engines. One fellow said there was no need, and that he was going to the basement to make sure the fire was out. When he ran off, the other man asked me if I knew how to use the alarm box up the street on the corner. I said I guess you just pull it, and he told me how to break the glass and turn the crank. I must have looked like I wasn’t sure I wanted to, because the man put his hand on my shoulder and said “you’ll be saving lives, son.” When I got to the box, I was so worked up I couldn’t break the glass with my mitten still on my hand. I found a stone and broke the little window. My finger still hurts from the cut I gave myself. I turned back toward the building, and if I live to be 90 years old I will never forget what happened next. I was running and could see the firemen and people around the bottom of the building, neighbors coming out on their porches in their nightdress, folks still clinging to the balcony railings … and I was beginning to hope no one would get hurt playing acrobat on the balconies, because this might not be a real bad fire …. when the whole place just went wooooosh! It broke out in flames. Brother Barnabas says the word is erupted. Well, that’s what it did … it erupted in flames. One huge sheet of flame shot up from the roof of the building and at the same time showers of sparks blew out the windows. Holy Mother Mary, I’ve never heard or seen anything like it! All the voices hushed for a moment, and then a loud moan went up from the crowd, the firemen included. I stopped running and plopped down in the snow. But after a few seconds, I got up and kept going back toward the Flats. Oh, why didn’t I go home? That poor lady. She was coming down a string of sheets and towels like some others, and she was crying all the way. She wore a hat kinda like the one I used to see on my old mother … God rest her soul as she walks with all the saints in Paradise … and she was old. A man in his shirtsleeves up on the fifth floor had gotten her on the rope. He probably thought he was saving her life. I yelled up at her to hold on. I ran up to where she would land and I held out my arms. I’m a strong kid. I shouted up to her, “Just a little farther!” She was down to the third floor now, but then she just stopped and hung there. I knew she couldn’t last long. “C’mon! Slide! I’ll catch ya!” I shouted. A fireman came out on a nearby third floor balcony and called to her to swing over to him, Maybe he had a plan to get her down the staircase, I don’t know. But I can’t see how she would’ve had the strength for it. All she had to do was slide down to me and she’d be safe. She looked over at the fireman, and then looked down at me. She looked sick and tired. Brother Barnabas says the word is miserable. Well, miserable is how she looked. “Over here!” the fireman shouted. “Down here, lady!” I cried It was like an auction. We both wanted her, but she was too scared to pick a winner, and she didn’t have very good choices, anyway, now that I consider it. But, oh, how I wish I could forget what I said next. “Let go and slide,” I yelled. But she just let go altogether and she fell. Right next to me. On the pavement. On her head. She hit a railing on the second floor, bounced off and then banged down at my side. She came so fast! Honest! I tried, I had my hands up. She was past my arms and on the ground before I could catch her. Now … I wish I’d just gone home when I got to Oneida Square that morning, taken my leftover papers and my coins and headed back down the hill to the ‘cademy. Wish I’d only read about the fire in the paper. Next day the Herald said that poor lady landed on her shoulder and broke it, not her head. Well, I’ve never before heard either a head or a shoulder break. But I have to tell ya. If you ever hear a head bust open, you’ll be sure to know it. It sounds like nothing else in the whole world. I don’t feel so good. |
|
| The Auction kws1949@gmail.com |
#3 of 5 |
| 2472 words | |
| She was way, way out of her element and she knew it.
Laura kept everything that could be touched tight, inside, as she shuffled
along the line next to the vacant building. Her baggy fatigue jacket covered a
paint stained sweat shirt. Mismatched socks and sagging sweat pants covered the
sharp plastic blade strapped to her shin. Not designed for easy access as much
as it was designed to evade detection. “Look” Bobby said as he knelt before her. “You may not need it. In that case, don’t worry about a thing. Still, I’ll feel better.” “They’ll see it, Bobby,” she said, worry filling her voice. “I need to get in first. That’s more important.” “Not if you don’t live,” he reminded her as he adjusted the bottom of her sweats to cover the sheath and blade. “Trust me, it’ll look just like part of your shin bone if they bother to scan you at all,” he said with confidence. Laura looked deep into his very dark eyes and saw his false bravado; a facade just for her. “How do you know what they’ll have?” Bobby demanded. “You don’t know these people, Laura. You really don’t.” “I’ve checked them out,” Laura lied easily. It was so easy to do these days, lying – preventing anyone from getting too close – too much information. She loved Bobby. He was a decent provider and tired to keep her and David fed and sheltered. She knew it took his every waking moment most days just to see they ate at least once. She shuffled forward, avoiding eye contact, looking down and away whenever anyone got too close. Her wool stocking cap mostly covered greasy hair she hadn’t washed in three days. In this crowd, she wanted to look like she belonged. “Keep the line moving,” a barker paced the outer ranks, encouraging haste in a voice far too jovial. “You don’t want to miss the first item – a 15 minute food dash. The winner gets this five pound canned ham!” He brandished a gaudy can in one hand. “Real meat here folks. Guaranteed factory sealed! The real deal! No domestic pet pieces here.” His voice faded as he walked the length of the line. There was a time when Laura remembered which big box store filled the building with cheaply made trash that no one really needed. Now auctioneers simply pirated any empty building they could and held auctions whenever they gathered enough real loot to attract a crowd. The line shuffled closer to the doors as the barker retraced his steps. “Have your Fedick ready! Remember, Fedick must show a minimum of one thousand to get you through the door!” Fishing in her pocket, Laura grasped her Federal Identification Card. Shortly after the initial issue, a political cartoon of a base nature baptized the card as Fedick. “Just think,” the pundit wrote. “A piece of the government to see exactly what they’re doing to you. A piece of the federal dick.” Slapping flesh and yelling voices jolted her raw nerves and caused the barker to stop his spiel and race towards the front of the line, his hand slipping inside his long trench coat pocket. Laura turned away, not wishing to get involved or be anywhere near the attention drawn by the scuffle. “It’s Ms Stewart, isn’t it?” The voice was not challenging, but mildly curious. “Isn’t this a bit out of your league?” “Hello, Mr. Friday,” Laura said quietly. Eddie Friday sidled beside her as the line shuffled slowly forward. “Finally is enough, Ms Stewart.” Finally Friday. The legend of the former elementary school janitor clung to him like plastic rap. According to the tale, he’d been summoned to clean a spill in a class. When he arrived, the teacher said – innocently enough as most things of this nature happen, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Friday, finally.” From then on, even in the school year books, he was Finally Friday. “What brings you here?” He asked gently. Laura looked up and down the line, hoping beyond hope that no one was listening. “I’ve heard you can get almost anything,” she said as quietly as she could. “I’m new to this.” David needed her and she wouldn’t fail her him. Since the collapse of contracts and the eventual closing of public schools, any health care she needed cost dearly. She’d heard rumors that these auctions often sold health care vouchers. Government issued health vouchers would guarantee David could be seen again this month. She didn’t know about future visits. With luck and a willing doctor, David could find his way on to one of the priority lists and she wouldn’t have to scrape and beg again. “They sell almost anything, true enough,” Finally Friday said. “This is a big outfit so they don’t have to do anything on the sly. You gotta be careful in some smaller auctions. Never buy food that you cannot personally inspect, like that ham. You notice he ain’t lettin no one hold it or get too close.” Laura said nothing. “The real thing ain’t cheap, but that ham’s probably real enough, knowing these guys.” Friday turned back to her and looked over her head. Although his posture didn’t change much, it was clear he was trying to mask their conversation now. She followed his lead. “How much you got?” A lie jumped instantly to mind. Why should she share such personal information with Finally Friday? Who know what his motives were? Still, having an ally here couldn’t hurt. He seemed to know his way around. “Ten,” she whispered as quietly as she could. “Ten!” Finally stammered, his eyebrows raised. “What are you doing here with a Dick that reads ten? How did someone like you manage .’.. .” He stopped himself in mid rant. “Sorry,” he said is he held up his hand in resignation. “Just thinking out loud. Bad habit. Still, you don’t want to go tellin just anyone you got a ten k dick. There are people in this line that’d kill for even a part of that. You must really want something bad. For a kid?” Laura nodded. “Yours?” She nodded again, grabbing her Fedick tightly. Finally Friday paused long enough to give her the once-over. “Not bad,” he smiled as though he’d seen her for the first time. “You have to do this again, you get a hold of me before you come down town. And rethink the shoes. Those are far too good to for someone dressed like you.” Laura nodded again and blushed under Finally’s scrutiny. She was just about to speak when he turned away and whistled. “RayRay!” He called and the barker turned, having dealt with the dispute up the line. The rat like man sauntered back to them. His black on black hair, greasy and ill kept, glistened in the bleak autumn sun. A sharp nose and hooked chin gave him a definite feral look. “Well, if it isn’t Finally Friday,” Ray said when he neared. “You buying or selling?” “Just helping a friend today, Ray,” Friday said. “Her first time.” “A virgin!” He called, laughing at his own feeble joke. “What’s she need?” “What you got, Ray, what’s on today?” “Food, that’s usual,” he looked Laura up and down, analyzing, sizing her up. “How much you got?” Laura turned away. “She’s nervous,” Friday said. “First time jitters. You know how it is.” Ray nodded and gestured to the pair as he headed for the front of the line. “Owner’s cuts,” he cried when those at the front of the line objected. “They can only let in so many,” Friday said in a low voice as they trailed in the wake of Ray. “Too many and the fire people jump in and shut them down.” He nodded and, for the first time, Laura saw a fire department SUV parked nearby with two men watching closely. Escorted by Ray, no one questioned her or Finally Friday at all, they simply released the ropes and let them pass. Once through the door she followed the crowd. “Not there,” Friday grabbed her arm as she attempted to follow them to a flat bed truck in the middle of the floor. Pulled up against a garage door, hundreds of people crowded around, pressing in from all sides, trying to get a closer look at the sale items. Behind the flat bed truck, a tractor trailer rig hugged one wall, it’s large doors open to reveal a travelling office and the real storeroom. “Wait here,” he said as he found a place for them against the wall. Twenty or thirty others gathered near the wall, away from the mob scene in front of them. “And don’t do anything until I get back,” Friday said, turning back and making sure she looked into his eyes. Laura nodded. “Ok folks,” a man from the back of the truck spoke into a microphone and feedback raced through the store, causing Laura to cover her ears. “As promised, the first item up is a 15 minute no limit grocery only dash at Conway Food King. As always, you can pick up your vouchers from the lovely Lisa, sitting here in the cab. All sales are final and responsibility of the buyer. Edgar Auctions assumes no responsibility for any item left after the sale.” “What they don’t say is that Conway’s shut its doors three months ago,” Finally Friday said as he handed her a cup of steaming coffee. Laura mumbled her thanks and sipped, grateful for something to do. “That canned ham he showed is a throw away.” He said, then continued when he saw the puzzled look in her eyes. “They’ll lose money on that. Not much, but some. Watch now.” The auctioneer began in a chant so fast that Laura missed everything. People in the crowd simply flashed a hand, or used some other signal. Finally, the auctioneer paused, then his hammer fell. Before she was aware, the sale was over. “Sold, three fifty on the dick,” he called out. “I’m betting that there isn’t three fifty left in Conway’s worth eating, including the fixtures,” Friday nodded. “Next up, coats from Galway,” the auctioneer called. “This is a lot of five so we’ll open at two fifty dick.” Bidding soon outpaced anything Laura had seen. She knew Galway coats and even five weren’t worth two fifty. The gavel fell at eight hundred. Laura shook her head and smiled. “Auction fever,” Friday said. “Real common in these. People lose their heads and get swept up, forgetting what they’re buying even.” Other cheap items flew off the truck. Laura watched, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t hold the coffee cup. She was so keyed up in the fever, her nerves so frayed, that she almost missed the first whisper of health coupons. “This is the real article,” the auctioneer called as he waved a bright green folder with HealthCal emblazoned in red across the front. “A HealthCal voucher. Bidding starts at five thousand.” She shot her hand up, but ran into Finally Friday’s arm before anyone took notice. “So that’s it,” he said. “I wondered when you didn’t show any interest in anything else. How many you need?” “My son,” she said as she looked into his face. “He needs treatment. He needs to see a doctor. He’s very ill.” “Dying?” “Not if I can help it,” Laura said, her jaw set but the thought of leaving empty handed threatened to overpower her. This was truly her last resort. She had no place else to turn. Her voice broke slightly. “I don’t know. They won’t say how bad and it’s been too long between visits.” The first voucher went for eleven five, the next for fourteen. “Those are the dead ones,” Friday said. Those who get the vouchers as hope against hope. Most know that it’s too late. “Don’t let them see how desperate you are. They have plants in the audience to help drive up the bidding,” he said tightly as he eyed a man standing nearby and glancing at them now and then. “If they know what you really want and how much you have, you can count on them zeroing in on you. Sit tight. Let me talk to Ray.” Laura watched as Friday slipped easily into the crowd, pausing to greet someone here, shake a hand there, and otherwise act like he hadn’t a care in the world. She watched a very brief exchange between Friday and Ray. Friday threw up his hands and eventually, Ray nodded. “He won’t sell privately,” Friday said when he returned. “Sorry, but I offered him the whole ten.” Laura nodded and bit her lip. “I did get him to keep three back for the end of the auction,” Friday said. “Not much of a sacrifice as those coupons don’t expire and will draw a crowd wherever these gypsies go. If he doesn’t get what he thinks they’re worth here, he can carry them over to the next auction.” As the auction moved ahead at a rapid pace, the crowd gradually thinned. The tension of standing in one place overwhelmed her and Laura found herself drawn slowly forward until she stood just in front of the bed of the truck. Two more health vouchers slipped by without her bidding, the last sold for eleven-two. When the auctioneer held up the final HealthCal folder, Laura bit her lip. Now or never. She waited as Friday suggested she do. The bidding slowed at nine, then paused at ninety five. “Are we done? All through?” The auctioneer called. “Fair warning.” “Ninety-nine,” she heard herself say as she raised her hand. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ray nod at the auctioneer. “Sold!” She cradled the precious documents as she hurried from the building, doing her best to ignore the envious glances cast her way. When she reached her car, she locked the doors and pulled her phone from the deep recesses of a pocket, dialing David’s doctor’s office before she started the car. “Yes, of course I remember you Ms Stewart,” the receptionist said. “I have a HealthCal voucher for David,” Laura said, tears of relief threatened. There was a pause. “I see,” the receptionist said. “One, two, or three?” “I don’t...,” Laura stammered as she pulled the voucher from its protective cover. “In the upper right corner,” the receptionist offered. “Oh, two,” she said when she spotted the roman numeral. “And this visit is for David?” The receptionist asked, then continued without waiting verification. “I’m sorry.” “What? This is a valid HealthCal voucher,” Laura stammered. “If you look on the back, under exceptions,” the receptionist explained hopelessly, compassion filling her voice. “You see, HealthCal twos do not cover previously existing conditions. That won’t work for David. I’m terribly sorry.” |
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| The Auction brigid@lorienwood.plus.com |
#4 of 5 |
| 65 words | |
| She simply had to have it as she needed it the most. You couldn't find another if you searched from coast to coast! She waved her 'number' wildly and tried to beat the rest with a sense of desperation in mercurial contest. Going once, twice, thrice. She'd won, and clapping her hands in glee she wrote a giant cheque out for her tiny bonsai tree! |
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| The Auction glenlee10@sky.com |
#5 of 5 Winner |
| 2401 words | |
| When my editor sent me to Savannah, he told me not to
let anyone know I was a reporter and as I eventually found myself in a very
rough, boisterous crowd, I was glad to follow his advice. I was sent to cover the sale of hundreds of negroes belonging to Mr.Pierce Butler of Philedelphia. The city was buzzing with folk and I would have found it impossible to find a bed had lodgings not already been arranged for me. Being young and keen I spent much of my time listening to other people’s conversations from which I was able to gather information for my report. There were posters everywhere advertising the event; Apparently, the slaves that were up for auction had never been sold before; most had been born and spent their lives on one of the two plantations belonging to an old family estate that was being broken up. I purchased a catalogue for my use and found that 429 ‘chattels’ were listed for sale in about 130 separate lots. The rules of the auction stated that the slaves would be sold as ‘families’ which would not be separated. The weather on that first day was cold and wet and I was thankful to take shelter in the midst of the crowd in the sale room. It was a very lively crowd, a mixture of gentlemen and ruffians. Much drink was being consumed and as the day wore on the rowdy element became somewhat threatening; their guns and their knives always, it seemed to me, within easy reach of their hands. I heard much talk about what would happen should they, “ketch themselves a Yankee newspapah sneak.” Two such sneaks were in fact identified that day; Thompson Doesticks of the New York Tribune and Mr. Pike from the Toledo Blade. Mr.Pike was ‘persuaded’ to leave the sale, despite his willingness to fight for his right to be there. Doesticks, it was said, was frightened but nevertheless stuck around, pretending to be a slave trader. When I was asked my opinion about these spies by a cigar waving ruffian, I agreed with everything he said, nodding my head vigorously and using as few words as possible lest my accent should give me away. The slaves were to be sold to pay off Mr.Butler’s debts, many of which had been obtained through gambling. It was noted that the clothes the slaves wore and their few meager possessions were included in the sale of that individual. I heard one portly gentleman comment on the strangeness of this idea, even though it would obviously be to the benefit of the buyer. “I wouldn’t sell the harness with the horse,” he said. “So why should the clothes go with the negro?” He shook his head, muttering about, “these damned modern ways.” It had taken several days to assemble the slaves as they came from two separate plantations. With few exceptions, they were very dark, their Congolese colouring undiluted. Most of them looked sad and bewildered. It was no wonder, as they’d only ever known the one home and one community of people and now they had to go away, never to meet their friends and neighbors again. They had been confined indoors since their arrival and were quiet, almost listless, in contrast to the disorder amongst the traders and the curious, who wished to inspect the goods before purchase. The negroes were examined constantly. Traders pinched their muscles, forced them to walk up and down and pulled open their mouths to examine their teeth. I believe that cows and horses are treated with more respect but they submitted patiently to the rough handling and even when a man’s wife was treated in a shameful fashion in his presence, in a way which a white woman would have considered indecent, the husband bore this terrible business with dignity. I had one bad moment before the sale started. I had made no comment when a slave driver nearby said to the bewhiskered, drink-fuddled man standing alongside him, “You can manage most niggers by lickin’ ‘em and givin’ ‘em a taste of the hot iron once in a while when they’re extra ugly.” Cigar smoke puffed into my face from a bystander made me cough, which attracted the driver’s attention to me. As he continued with his rant, he watched me closely. “If a nigger really sets himself up against me, I jest get my pistol and shoot him right down.” Men on all sides went quiet. I found myself in the eye of a small oasis of calm. “Well, aint that the best way?” the driver spoke only to me. The handle of his pistol peeped through his open coat. He scratched his belly with his right hand. “Aint it?” he demanded in a louder voice. “”Of course it is,” I said hurriedly. “Of course it is.” “You agree with me then.” He continued to probe. “You jest shoot ‘em right down if’n they gets ugly?” I nodded. I tried to smile my agreement but the smile slid from my face. He didn’t believe me. Just kept a-scratching at his bulging belly while the men nearby began to inch backwards, isolating me. But luck was on my side, even if no one in the crowd was. Before the situation could deteriorate more, the auctioneer climbed onto his rostrum. His loud voice, recounting the terms of the sale, diverted everyone’s attention. I sidled away. The weather had turned foul. The sale was held in a three sided building. Unhindered across the race track, the wind was fierce and cold and the rain lashed into the sale room. The auctioneer, Mr.Walsh, was a large, jovial man with a red face and disheveled dress. He knew his business though and joked with most of the bidders, keeping the interest in the proceedings going despite the unpleasantness of the day. I’d chosen to hide in the midst of a very dense section of the crowd and continued to eavesdrop on the conversations of others. A better class of gentleman, with a sparkling shirt pin and polished boots, was talking to an equally well turned out colleague. “A good policy that,” I heard him say, “to sell the negras as families. It’ll help Mr.Butler dispose of the dross nobody would want to buy.” I made shorthand notes on my catalogue, which did indeed show many of the slaves as being, ‘ruptured’ or otherwise infirm. A series of quiet men caught my eye. They were tidily dressed in somber, unremarkable clothing and calm in their movements and stepped unhindered amongst the slaves. These men ignored the male slaves but questioned the women and youthful girls closely. In some undefined way, the actions of these white men were more distasteful to me than the thugs who’d prefer to take an iron to an, “okward nigger”. The first lot under the hammer was a man, George, 27, a prime cotton planter; his wife, Sue, 26, a prime rice planter and their children, George Jr. who was 4, and Harry, 2. They fetched a price of $620 each; an amount of $2480 that would go towards paying off Mr. Butler’s gambling debts. Throughout the proceedings, from his position on the auction block, George held Sue’s hand and stared above the heads of the crowd. The children huddled close to their mother and little Harry, I noted, was so frightened, he’d wet his drawers. And so it went for two days, sad lot after sad lot. Lovers Jeffrey, chattel number 319, a prime cotton hand and Dorcas, chattel number 278 were parted. Jeffrey was sold first and after Jeffrey’s pleading, his new master agreed to buy Dorcas too. But Dorcas was put into a lot with a family of four, an expense that Jeffrey’s master was either unable or unwilling to afford and Jeffrey’s sweetheart went to another buyer, to work on the cotton fields of South Carolina. Jeffry was to go to the rice plantation of the Great Swamp. I doubt they will meet again in this life. I was on the edge of the crowd when Jeffrey snatched off his hat and spoke to his new master. “I’se very much obliged, Mas’r, to you for trying to help me. I knows you would have done it if you could. Thank you, Mas’r, thank you. But it’s hard, berry hard.” Jeffrey broke down and had to cover his tearful face with his battered old hat, his heart broken. Jeffrey’s predicament was not noticed by anyone else and the next instant, a wave of great hilarity swept through the crowd. Violet, chattel number 112, a rice hand, aged 55, was sold for $250. She was sick, possibly consumptive. “Cheap gal, that!” one trader shouted at the lucky buyer. “A good bargain. For a month or two maybe!” Guy, chattel number 419, in comparison, described as a ‘prime rice man aged 20’, with no encumbrances, was sold for £1280. Disheartened by everything I saw and heard, I left the sale just as the second day was drawing to a close, worrying over the report I would write and fearing that the readership would not believe the half of the depravity I saw on the one side and the dignity I saw on the other. As I left the race course, the sun struggled its way through the rain clouds. I saw a crowd of negroes clustering around a white man and asked a trader, who was just about to mount his horse, who the white man was. “That’s Mr.Pierce Butler,” he said, “the man responsible for the last few day’s events. You might have noticed,” he scowled as he spoke, “there were no representatives of any of the old planter families here? Even though I have benefited from the sale, it is a disgusting thing to have done, breaking the tradition of never selling a negro born on one of the old plantations. I doubt those families will have much social intercourse with Mr.Butler from now on.” He rode away and I made my way through the mud to the crowd, where Mr.Butler was handing out a dollar to each of his ex-slaves. To make his largesse seem even the greater, each man, woman and child was given four, shiny, newly-minted 25 cent pieces. Mr.Butler’s gesture cost him 429 dollars. The sale of his ‘assets’ netted him $303,850. I left Savannah, sick to my heart. My editor thought I’d learned many valuable lessons on the trip about the cruelty and harshness of the world. And I suppose I had, but though necessary, the lessons, had been hard earned. There is a postscript. That same year, after Christmas, I returned to my office on 26th December. The editor dropped the previous day’s New York Times on my desk. It was open at an article entitled, The article told the tale of Colonel Tom Pate, a trader from Vicksburg, who’d bought 220 slaves at the Savannah auction. Amongst them had been a man, his wife and his two sisters. Pate had ignored the guarantee that families should not be split and he’d sold the sisters on to another trader, Pat Somers. Negro slaves have few legal rights but the ones they do have are well protected so when Mr. Somers discovered the guarantee, he took the girls back to Pate and demanded a refund. There was a quarrel. Somers was shot dead. Just over a week later, Somer’s nephew killed Pat but in the resulting fight, sustained wounds from which he too died. The feud that ensued continued until every male with the name Pate had been killed. It is ironic. If Mr.Butler had waited one more year before selling his slaves, he would not have received even $1, because of the war that liberated the two sisters and every other slave. My editor suggested I might like to write an article on the later events. I must say, I was only too happy to oblige. |
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