by Fran Seen
Blackbird
an Online Romance
Fran Seen
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
The Land of Blue Smoke
Stick Indian Snookering
Rainbow Crow’s Descent
The Cherokee Rose
Where the Wild Things Bloom
Sweet Lemonade & Bitter Sentiments
The Glasshouse
Quantum of the Heart
Acknowledgments
Also by Fran Seen
Also by Fran Seen
Copyright © 2015 by Fran Seen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
To all of my online friends who I promised to meet but never did because fourteen-year-old me couldn’t drive or lie very well.
The Land of Blue Smoke
I pounded another quarter into the slot machine and pulled the lever with a discontented sigh. A girl with cascading obsidian hair and cheekbones sharp enough to sever a limb eyed me from behind the bar. She’d been polishing the same brandy sniffer for the last ten minutes, undoubtedly wondering why I’d ordered three gin and tonics with enough lime to pucker a nun when it was only ten-thirty in the morning. The geriatric crowd surrounding me paid no attention to my beverage consumption; they played their penny slots, puffed on stinky cigars, and sipped tall bloody marys while savoring the simple luxuries of retirement.
The curious gaze I intercepted from the bartender coaxed a few more sips of the drink I’d been nursing. The juxtaposition between me and my gambling comrades didn’t end at our demeanors. My oddities shown even in the dim lighting and smoky haze of the casino. Standing out wasn’t a familiar sensation. Growing up, I played second fiddle to my older sister, Minnie Marie Drummond—Miss Tennessee 2011, humanitarian, philanthropist, partner at my father’s law firm, and owner of an Instagram account with a hundred thousand followers. If Minnie were here, she’d wrinkle her nose at the second-hand smoke lingering in the air and click her tongue at my poor life choices, the first one being a liquid breakfast.
Buzzing sirens rattled me from my inner turmoil. “Nice one, darlin’,” Jimmy squeezed my shoulder and hovered like a vulture. The graying man beside me had relayed his name when he claimed the machine to my right two hours ago.
“Pardon?” I shook myself from my inebriated daze and noticed the flashing lights seizing at the crest of my slot machine, drawing my attention to the trio of coin bags lined up on the screen.
“Four jackpots ain’t a bad start before lunch,” the gentleman retrieved his coke bottle spectacles from the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt and studied the spiderweb of lines intersecting across the reel. “I’m prayin’ some of your luck will rub off on me,” he grinned as I collected the chips from the payout tray. “What’s the grand total now?”
“Somewhere in the neighborhood of way richer than I was prior to my arrival,” I replied, downing the rest of my drink in one gulp and a wince. “Jimmy—may I call you Jim?” I hiccuped and continued without his consent. “I’ll do you one better than giving you a little luck, Jim. You can have my machine. I think it’s a hot one. And just between you and me,” I leaned in, close enough to smell Jim’s musky aftershave and a hint of peppermint. “If I win anymore, I think they’ll drag me out.”
Jim’s eyes widened from the sudden invasion of space, but his lopsided grin relayed an underlying thrill.“Well, I’ll be darn—thank ya, honey,” he climbed into my seat as I backed away and waved off his thanks.
My morning winnings totaled $7,000. It was a sizable sum I would’ve been thrilled about if playing quarter slots was my biggest gamble of the day. The smothering dread of what loomed ahead couldn’t be muted by an influx of cash or a slosh of hard liquor. I arrived in Cherokee, North Carolina last night with one purpose: to find out if Charlie Blackbird was alive.
I flashed the pit-boss a preoccupied smile as he piled bills into my open hand, then I promptly shoved the wad of cash into my bag without attempting to file the money in my wallet. In a huff, I boarded the lift, resolute in sleeping off my buzz in the comfort of down feather pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets, because I, Dolly Jo Drummond, was a master procrastinator and a total chicken shit.
The girl who stared back at me in the reflection of the closing lift doors appeared as vacant as the elevator itself. While sporting a collected exterior, with an ironed blouse and expensive denim, I knew the wrecked soul that resided within. My mind scorched with worry and second-guesses, with the embers settling like a bag of rusty nails in the pit of my stomach.
“What are you doing here?” my voice was thinner than I remembered, coated in indecisiveness. My reflection blinked back, looking as bewildered as I felt. Throughout my life, I’d taken solace in being the girl with the plan. I was sure-footed and mild-mannered, because the guesswork had been taken from my life. I hung out in Minnie’s shadow. My sister etched a well-worn path I aimed to follow, even though I tripped on the jagged rocks from time to time, but the last twenty-four hours drove me into a forest of dense vegetation with no path in sight.
* * *
I’d met Blackbird five years ago. Our friendship blossomed on the unmoderated boards of a popular internet forum. While Minnie occupied herself with extracurricular activities like ballet or tennis or whatever hobby tickled her fancy that week, I padded back to my room under the guise of a quiet spot to complete homework. My father, either incredibly naive or optimistic to a fault, allowed a computer in both mine and my sister’s rooms. My life was a tornado of unmet expectations, sibling rivalry, and small town reputation, and my escape was the internet.
Mine and Blackbird’s friendship originated from our shared morbid interest: cemetery porn. No, not photos or videos of individuals bumping uglies on top of tombstones. Rather, the cemetery porn Blackbird and I enjoyed included images of unique burial grounds. It was a fixation I’d never discussed out loud, in real life, but in private, I immersed myself in the study of burial rituals, landmark resting places of famous folks, and restoration of abandoned or neglected cemeteries. I found the gruesome preservation of human remains and history fascinating, so much so, that I sequestered a photographic collection of all of the cemeteries I’d ever visited: shots of broken headstones and overgrown vines wrapped around the last memories of the dead.
In 2006, Blackbird posted a photo of Charleston’s Magnolia Cemetery on the forum I frequented. Moss-draped oaks, tiny Confederate flags, and unmarked headstones speckled the final resting place of the crew members of H.L. Hunley, a small submarine that played a role in the Civil War. I had a similar picture in my album. Intrigued, I commented on Blackbird’s thread:
DollyWOOD: Great pic. I’ve been there. Did you go by the Smith Monument?
Magnolia Cemetery was as old as it was interesting. Established in 1850, boasting famous occupants like South Carolina governors, southern generals, and notable authors, the Smith Monument was one of my favorite crypts amongst the sprawling burial ground. Built like a miniature pyramid and riddled with the effects of the ocean breeze, a tingle descended down my spine when Grandma Jean led me past the crypt to reach her grandfather’s grave and exchange the weathered, faux flowers for a fresh bouquet.
A private chat popped up moments after I submitted my comment:
Blackbird: Yeah, of course I saw it. Magnolia is one of my favorite cemeteries. Super peaceful and serene. Tons of Civil War history…I’m a nerd. I love that kind of stuff.
DollyWOOD: I guess that makes me a nerd, too...A/S/L?
Blackbird: 19/M/NC. You?
DollyWOOD: 16/F/TN
Blackbird: Are you really 16 or are you a 40-year-old balding man looking for a quick thrill? I ask because I’ve been burned before, by an alleged MILF who later sent me a candid photo of the magic wand between her legs.
DollyWOOD: Oh, the visual. No, I’m really 16. Sorry to disappoint you?
Blackbird: Disappointed? I’m relieved. No amount of eye-bleach will ever cure me, but somehow I think I’ll manage.
DollyWOOD: Live and learn, I guess. Or live and don’t open email attachments without a thorough vetting of the sender?
Blackbird: I prefer the second saying. It’s catchy. Worthy of being screen-printed on a t-shirt or slapped onto a car bumper.
DollyWOOD: Well, if you feel inclined to take creative liberties like that, be sure to give me a piece of the pie. I did come up with the catchphrase, after all.
Blackbird: Duly noted. Have you ever been to Arlington?
For years, our conversations revolved around buried history, with a bit of snark thrown in for good measure. Eventually, communication leapt from the forum’s limited chat feature to MSN Messenger for easier access and server reliability. Blackbird never stayed online for more than an hour, and he regularly messaged me at the same time every day, around four in the afternoon. Our relationship remained platonic, with the occasional inquiry if either of us had acquired a significant other.
I throttled our relationship forward, albeit unintentionally, on Blackbird’s twenty-first birthday. I considered him a good friend, and as a common practice amongst friends, I wanted to give him a gift on his birthday. I’d picked up an extra copy of a book I’d recently finished: Bog Bodies, a non-fiction classic detailing the discovery of mummified cadavers in Northern Europe. The chemistry of the bogs preserved a generous portion of the skin and internal organs, but the circumstances in which corpses were thrown in the bogs were more interesting than the uncovered remains: human sacrifices, punishment for deviance, and retribution for Christian sins, like suicide, fell amongst some of the more intriguing reasons for bog burial.
I felt certain that Blackbird would relish in the book as much as I did.
It took a little convincing, but eventually he caved and provided me with a shipping address. To my surprise, a package arrived in my college P.O. box weeks later from Charlie Blackbird. I ripped open the yellow envelope, and a silver chain flew across the room, hitting my rickety bunk bed and flopping onto the stained maroon carpet of my freshman dorm. The delicate chain, adorned with a tiny, carved wooden feather, held two pieces of turquoise cradling either side of the carving. I clasped it on my wrist and banged on the keyboard with enough fervor to start a small desk fire.
DollyWOOD: It’s not my birthday, but thank you for my lovely bracelet. I’m wearing it right now.
Blackbird: Well, I enjoyed the book so much that I felt inclined to show my appreciation. I whittle miniatures on occasion, and the feather seemed right for a bracelet.
DollyWOOD: Wait...you made this? Get the fuck outta here.
Blackbird: Woah there, do you kiss your mother with that mouth? Just kidding. And yes, but don’t sound so impressed. Attaching a charm to a bracelet is only slightly more advanced than a toddler stringing beads together.
DollyWOOD: Watch out, everybody—Mr. Humble has arrived. Take your seats and let the self-deprecation begin.
Blackbird: Very funny. Side note, after two years, I’ve learned your first name is Dolly. The screen name is making sense now.
DollyWOOD: What did you think my screen name meant?
Blackbird: That you were either Dollywood’s official publicity person or that you had massive breasts.
DollyWOOD: Wow, joke’s on you—I am actually Dollywood’s official publicity person who happens to have massive breasts?
Blackbird: The question mark at the end of that statement doesn’t make for a convincing declaration.
DollyWOOD: Do you find it strange that we’ve been chatting for two years and never discussed meeting?
Blackbird: Is it strange? Sure. Do you think it’s weird?
DollyWOOD: Yeah. You’re a stone’s throw away from me. I could get in my car right now and say hi before the clock strikes seven.
Blackbird: Why would we meet, though? What’s the point?
DollyWOOD: What’s the point? You’re not the least bit curious as to what I look like?
Blackbird: I haven’t really thought about it, I guess. You’re the person I talk to online. I suppose I have this preconceived notion of you in my head.
DollyWOOD: Go on.
Blackbird: Tall. Slender build. Dark hair. Haven’t made out the details of your face yet.
DollyWOOD: W-O-W. You have a gift.
Blackbird: I do?
DollyWOOD: Yeah, for being wrong. You basically just described my older sister, though.
Blackbird: You and your sister don’t look alike?
DollyWOOD: No. Everyone in my family has brassy, chocolate hair, olive skin, long legs, and an affinity for American Idol. Me? Blonde, 5’3” on a good day, and an affinity for the moment American Idol is cancelled.
Blackbird: Our relationship was built on a bed of lies. Or assumptions, I guess. What do you think I look like?
DollyWOOD: Hmm...You’re tall. I sense this. Most of your closet consists of flannel button-ups. You might have a beard.
Blackbird: That is oddly specific…
DollyWOOD: You have a strong nose and structured jaw. People envy your posture.
Blackbird: You’re not wrong. Keep going.
DollyWOOD: You’ve got thighs like a tree trunk and a thick mat of fur covering you from head to toe. Good teeth. Great for shredding the flesh of your enemies.
Blackbird: Uh oh...my secret has surfaced. I am actually BigFoot. A sensibly dressed BigFoot with impeccable keyboard strokes and a poor imagination.
DollyWOOD: I knew it.
Blackbird: I am tall. My posture is okay, not enviable. I’m currently slouching.
DollyWOOD: What a visual...Keep painting this breathtaking picture.
Blackbird: I’m Cherokee.
DollyWOOD: Like, a real Native American?
Blackbird: Yeah, a real one—opposed to all those filthy imposters running around, throwing tomahawks at innocent civilians and rain dancing in the streets.
DollyWOOD: I have a incredibly regal and stoic image of you now. You have your arms crossed, and you’re gazing into the sunset without eye protection.
Am I getting warmer?
Blackbird: Lava hot.
We spoke of more personal matters for a time. The metaphorical drawbridge lowered, and Blackbird allowed me a glimpse of himself for one hour each day. As the years passed, I felt comfortable sharing personal details with him. I told him I was Pre-Law at Vanderbilt. My father owned a law firm in downtown Chattanooga, and he’d accepted my sister as partner as soon as she filled in the last question on the bar exam. Having worked at Drummond & Drummond, LLC only a month, Minnie garnered a large client base from her small town fame and first place title in Miss Chattanooga’s swimsuit competition. She was destined for legal greatness, having soared through Vanderbilt with a perfect GPA and finishing with a stunning résumé.
While Minnie trail blazed, I limped ahead. I had the brains but lacked vision. I didn’t wish to be the family failure, and fear allowed me to scoot by each semester with barely passing grades. No one noticed, because they were too busy celebrating Minnie’s endless accomplishments, and for that I was thankful. Her extraordinariness kept the attention off of my mediocrity.
Blackbird’s reality was beyond anything I could’ve ever imagined. He’d lived his entire life in a place called the Qualla Boundary, where the Eastern Band of the Cherokee Nation resided. Blackbird emerged as the first person in his family to graduate from high school, and he even went on to technical school, where he earned two associates degrees: one in wildlife
management, the other in public safety. Blackbird worked as a park ranger and seemed to love his job. He relished in the freedom of the outdoors and couldn’t imagine life behind a desk or enclosed in a cubicle.
With graduation around the corner, my schedule was jam-packed, and I found myself prioritizing my studies over my conversations with Blackbird. Although, I would’ve much preferred chatting with him. Under the threat of failure and postponed graduation, I buckled down during my last semester. I spent my days in class and nights in the library, ostracizing myself from my group of friends and their fun.
Blackbird: Are you alright?
DollyWOOD: Just putting one foot in front of the other at this point. Trying to graduate. I’ve stressed myself into a debilitating caffeine addiction.
Blackbird: I was worried. Our conversations have been one-sided lately.
DollyWOOD: I know, I know. I miss our talks. They’re my favorite part of the day.
Blackbird: They’re my favorite part of the day, too.
DollyWOOD: I was thinking...I mean, if you’d be okay with it—we could meet up after I graduate.
Blackbird: You’d want that?
DollyWOOD: You wouldn’t?
Blackbird: I’m not sure.
DollyWOOD: Okay...this is awkward.
Blackbird: I’m sorry.
DollyWOOD: I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you don’t want to meet me. You chat with me every single day. Why wouldn’t you want to talk to me in person?
Blackbird: I love chatting with you. But my life is different from yours in ways you can’t possibly understand. People expect certain things of me, and if I do what I want, I disappoint them. If I do what they want, I disappoint you. It’s a lose-lose scenario.
DollyWOOD: I ‘couldn’t possibly understand’? You can’t be serious. You’re my best friend. What am I to you?
