Author's note:
Oleander Dreams was written for the "Beyond the Wall of Sleep" event honoring HP Lovecraft. It's partly dystopian, partly a descent into madness. Is it real? I'll leave it to you to decide. I hope I've done the estimable Mr. Lovecraft justice.
For those of you who are looking for my "sick puppy" material, I'm sorry to disappoint. For everyone I scared off with my last erotic horror submission, I imagine this will better suit your refined tastes.
Chapter 1
New Orleans is filled with ghosts. Some of them are even real, but most of them are just people: displaced, homeless, refugees from the new world order. Pretending to live, going through the motions of productive existence.
I think the ghosts are happier, yet I wonder what Marie Laveau would think about the changes in her city. I'd studied her back in the day, years before an unknown congresswoman from the Yankee states would set us all on the road to perdition in the name of utopia.
Her face is all over the city. Beautiful, graceful, with a wide toothy smile and plans that seemed like a good idea at the time. She's very charismatic, the ideal mouthpiece for a government dedicated to making everyone the perfectly inoffensive best person they can be.
Tulane still exists. Well, sort of. The land it sits on is there, and it's still called Tulane, but it's more an indoctrination center than an institute for higher education, sterile and perfect metal and glass.
Ghostly fingers stroke my spine as I walk past the skyscraper of five hundred square foot apartments built atop what used to be Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. The mausoleums exist only in the memories of older folks like me. You can't even find pictures anymore. I have no idea what the government did with the human remains that had been interred there. The tombs were ground into aggregate for concrete. Maybe the bones were, too.
I suppose New Orleans isn't any different than any other city in the United States. Maybe the changes hurt more because it's my home, and so much of its history was destroyed by one single bill, signed into law with a negligent sweep of a pen.
All of humanity lives in cities just like this one. It's a more efficient use of resources. Every scrap of old construction was demolished, starting in 2020, my first year of college. It's all high-efficiency cinder block, solar panels and wind farms atop buildings now. Graceless, without beauty, but inexpensive and easy to build.
The land outside the city is carefully managed to produce crops and new growth forests to replace what we've cut down since the Industrial Revolution. I haven't seen it, of course. No one has. Exit from the city is prohibited, and it's surrounded by a wall to make sure everybody stays where they're supposed to.
I keep walking. It's my day to stand in line for groceries. It's done by alphabet. My last name starts with R, so my grocery day is Thursday. Laundry is Monday, cleaning my shoebox of an apartment takes all of ten minutes on Tuesday, Wednesday is mandatory group therapy to ensure everyone in New Orleans is as happy as they can possibly be. And so on, ad infinitum, ad nauseum, including mandatory daily exercise. I don't even get to pick my own food. It's all prepackaged meals, supposedly custom designed to my optimum weight and age.
Thirty-seven isn't that old. Maybe I just feel my age more these days. I don't think my meds are very helpful, but my therapist doesn't seem concerned. I hope I get a new dosage with my food rations this week.
Thursday is the day I most miss those shrimp po'boy sandwiches, beignets, and coffee with chicory, all illegal now for being unhealthy. I sigh and squeeze myself into line between M. Reynolds and O. Reynolds just outside the windowless cinderblock structure housing the commissary. There used to be a restaurant here that served the most decadent Sunday brunch with live jazz every weekend.
We don't speak. What is there to say?
But I want to. I want to ask O. Reynolds if she feels the cold leech into her old bones when she walks past Lafayette Cemetery No. 1, but she's deaf as a post and I don't dare ask my questions above a whisper.
Somehow, I think she does. Despite the heat of the late afternoon sun, she huddles in a threadbare shawl, probably crocheted with her own gnarled hands a lifetime ago. It's faded blues and pinks, with virulent orange stripes. Her lips work over a mouth empty of teeth and she clutches a strand of rosary beads in a dark fist.
Every Thursday, I wonder how she's managed to keep them. Blatant religious symbols are frowned upon, lest they upset other people who can't mind their own damned business. Maybe her extreme age renders her invisible. I haven't reached that blessed state yet.
I don't ask the man in front of me. M. Reynolds is young, with the dead-eyed stare of hopelessness and boredom. Even if I had the wherewithal to pose a question, he has no frame of reference to understand my words.
He's still handsome, though. He gives me a sweet, appreciative smile when I step between him and O. Reynolds. I preen a little, even though I'm close to old enough to be his mother.
I'll say one thing for this new way of getting food. It's remarkably efficient. You stand in the right spot, keep moving forward, and sooner or later, your government issued canvas sack will be filled with twenty-one meals and fourteen snacks.
Lord above, I miss cooking.
"N. Reynolds, step forward."
I obey and give the man behind the counter my sack. To my surprise, he hands it to someone else, then says. "Follow C. Carmichael. She'll be handling your rations."
Nodding, I glance at the woman holding my sack. She's about my age and pretty with huge brown eyes and freckled cheeks. Giving me a small smile, she says, "Come with me, please."
"Of course."
When we're away from my line mates, I ask, "Is there a problem with my rations? I don't think it's time for my yearly evaluation."
Without stopping or turning to look at me, C. Carmichael says, "No, not at all, N. Reynolds. We've received notice that your application for offspring has been approved, so your rations are being adjusted accordingly."
She pauses at a metal door and sets her thumb to the lock. "May I be the first to offer my congratulations on your good fortune."
"I never applied for a license for offspring," I protest, knowing my words will fall on deaf ears. The government doesn't make mistakes. If it said I'd been selected to have a child, I was going to be pregnant in the not too distant future, regardless of my wishes.
I'd like to say I'd considered applying for a baby. Most people do at some point in their lives. I'm smart, healthy, and fit. On paper, I'd be a good parent. In reality, probably not so much.
I don't even have a partner, not that it matters. Dumbly, I follow her into the storeroom, flinching when the door shuts with a bang behind me. The sound reminds me of finality. The solid metallic noise echoes, vibrating with dark purpose.
"May I see the application?" I ask. I want to know who submitted it without my knowledge or permission.
Unsurprisingly, she shakes her head and gives me a suspicious look. "I don't have it. Sorry."
"That's okay." I don't say anything else. It doesn't do anyone a bit of good to argue with the government's minions. There's no end of trouble from that.
Grunting noncommittally, she retrieves a second bag and starts to fill it with fresh food. Oranges, dark bundles of leafy greens sparkling with moisture. Mesh bags of strawberries, red and fecund, smelling of summer. Bags of rice and beans.
All things I remember loving back in the day. And food I haven't seen in years. My fingers itch with the muscle memory of setting a steak in a hot iron skillet to sear, and I can suddenly smell the rich scent of fat and spice. Butter and olive oil, onion, bell peppers, and celery, the holy trinity of Louisiana food. The bitter perfume of collard greens cooked with bacon grease from an orange coffee can set on the back of a stove and served with malt vinegar and pepper sauce.
All things that don't exist. Not here, not now. I feel gut punched by memory and betrayal. My hands shake with a mixture of rage and sadness as I accept the heavily laden bags and my weekly supply of meds from C. Carmichael and trudge home.
The ghosts of the past ride me hard. I hear the whisper of live oaks draped with Spanish moss. Wind chimes decorating mausoleums tinkle, their song adding melody to the percussion of my steps like a jazz band leading a funeral procession. The pervasive scent of oleander and magnolia fill my brain until I think I might go insane with the want of those spectral fragrances. I smell a gust of rich bourbon on the breeze.
The subtropical air is thick, pressing down like a humid weight on my back. There will be a storm later, vicious and fanged as it rages against the fetters of dike and buttressed levee. The acrid scent of ozone and seawater will envelop the city, and for a few brief moments, people will remember the before times.
Tears well in my eyes when I imagine hearing the steady clip clop of old Sophie's hoofbeats on the cobbled streets of my youth as she pulls her flower-strewn carriage through the Garden District, resplendent with gilt trimmed harness and a shimmery dappled gray hide.
My apartment door closes behind me before I realize I have no way to cook or store my unwelcome, infuriating bounty. I don't even have a fucking paring knife.
I shake my head and curse. I'll have to figure out something to do with it later. I need to get ready for my weekly socialization.
Chapter 2
I change into my best outfit. The black skirt shows off my legs, and I wear a gauzy blouse over a camisole. It's a costume, I suppose. Or maybe it's more like the plumage of birds when they're looking for a mate.
The mating dance between humans is more stylized now. We socialize without the benefit of a few cocktails to ease conversation. There's always talk about jobs, sometimes families. None of us have hobbies that we're willing to share or favored sports teams to argue over.
Sports don't exist anymore. The concept of a winner and a loser is anathema.
Even music is antiseptic, toneless melody designed to soothe rather than evoke stronger emotion. I trudge the few blocks to the socialization center, then stand in line to wait my turn to get inside.
There are a few young women at the front of the line. They giggle and whisper behind their hands as they peer inside. When their turn comes, they race in all different directions, their excitement palpable as they search out a partner for the night.
They're young enough to enjoy the charade. Those women will all find someone who they will later pretend not to know. Maybe it isn't such a pretense. Who really knows anyone?
When I'm allowed inside, I sit at the bar and accept my tonic water. It's bitter enough to allow me to pretend it has vodka in it.
