Prolouge

The air in New York City is always heavy with some type of miasma, thickly spread and often uneven, but on days like today, it felt different. That's probably because it was.

This is the day of the year that no one on this side of the Metro liked to talk about. Everyone kept their heads low, and even lower when it met the eyes of the Families. No one wanted to look at them -- no one wanted to remember why they were here, complete with swollen eyes and trembling lips. It hurt too much to think. It hurt too much to know.

The streets -- normally bursting at the seams with all variations of life -- seemed all but dead, with all eyes falling on the procession of black -- the Black March, as the locals called it -- that treaded solemnly. These faces, these bodies -- all wearing black, all holding gold trimmed picture frames of faces that seem to become more faded every year -- look older, and no closer to feeling like any of this was no longer necessary.

The few people who chose to carry on with life as normal today stand paused on both sides of the metropolitan sidewalk, shamelessly staring. You'd think by now they would be used to it, but the only thing that has changed is the growing sentiment of grief that threatens to swallow them whole. It hasn't yet, but those staring eyes would serve as a reminder that everyone anticipated for it to come. 

No one anticipated it more than the woman leading the front of the Black March, who wore the same ankle length black dress that she wore last year, but still managed to make it feel new. The dress only accessorized with her bright brown eyes and thinning red hair that was pinned up in proper fashion. People often wondered if she continued to dye it red, but most assumed she did. At this point, it was not only a symbol, but an oath. That hurt to remember, too.

From the middle of the March, a voice. "Regina," it mumbles, "you're walking too fast. Michael won't be able to keep this pace much longer."

That woman in front turns, but never once does she slow her pace. It is her turn to lead the Families this year, she will not take that lightly. The March goes on. "Then pick him up," she states, flatly, eyes floating to a black suited stumbling toddler who was keeping time, but not for long. "You promised me you'd keep an eye on him. We can't slow down. You know that."

The voice who had spoken finds its identity in Alexandra, who clumsily reaches for Michael's hand to fold into her own. "I know what I said," she mutters, "and I'm watching him, am I not? I'm watching him get tired." Her other hand nestles her picture frame close to her chest, holding it steady, like she's afraid of what will happen should it no longer be there. If anything, it was being used to keep whatever she was feeling on the inside. Should it spill out, past that golden frame, to bleed on the pavement, it would only cause more remembering. There was enough of that today.

Despite this, Regina never falters. She turns her head to keep the March in rhythm, like it was the only thing she knew to do. "Then he can stay home next year, but we can't slow down. Pick him up if you have to." A pause, followed with an almost sarcastic click of the tongue. "Maybe you can be up front next year, then you can set the pace and I can be in the middle bitching about how slow you're going."

Alexandra makes a noise that is almost akin to a laugh, but it quickly finds it death within her throat. No one laughs today. How could they even think of it? Instead, she looks to Michael, who is trying his best in shoes that -- she's now wondering -- appear too small. Those bulbous green eyes of his find hers to match, and in response to the question never asked, he nibbles on his free fist. Funny. She's almost jealous at his ignorance. "I don't ever want to be in the front," she finally admits, "I don't want everyone looking at me like...that."

"They're already looking at you like that," Regina replies, voice sharp and precise. She thinks of the fifty-some-odd Families that made up the entirety of the Black March, and she lets out an exasperated sigh. "They always look at us like that."

That pity, that ignorance, all wrapped up in gazes that are meant to translate into being caring, but they never do. Perhaps the translation wouldn't be missed if those same gazes were hiding behind cell phone cameras and social media posts, calling for thoughts and prayers, because suddenly it matters now. It didnt matter then. It should've mattered then.

Regina clutches her own frame, treating it like an anchor, as she continues to walk. Oh yes, it should've mattered then. When the sobbing was raw and the tears were fresh, it should've mattered then. If you were to ask her, it should've been the only thing that mattered, if only for a little while. At least then, translations would stop getting lost and maybe, just maybe, Regina could have a good night's sleep here and there. 

But that isn't what happened then, and it certainly wasn't happening now.

She thinks, perhaps she is too old for this. After all, she is approaching 68, and this never made the difference she wished it would. Every year, she wore this same dress, same shoes, and carried the same frame with the same picture. All those things remained, but her skin was becoming slippery off bone that felt like it was too brittle. Winkles formed, blood clotted, but yet this one thing would never change, There was no way she could not be at the March. Everyone needed to remember, because the burden was too much for Regina -- the Families of the Black March -- to carry on their own.

Time passes, and it feels like forever, between the monotonous steps and the eyes of bystanders tracking the Families like time itself. Eventually, though, the March reaches its yearly destination.

The town hall, decorated to the hilt with a flurry of white roses, all in various stages of wilt. Candles line the stone steps -- steps that feel too big and count too many -- burning diligently, lighting a path for the Black March, as if they didn't know their way here by now. At the bottom step rested a collection of bouquets, all white roses, fresh. Regina stifles a bitter laugh. Rectangular tables covered in black linens stood just a way away, right where Regina leads the March to, stopping only when her stomach threatens to press against them.

At the top of the steps is a podium, complete with microphone, coupled with the body of the man the March had come to address -- Mayor Thomas Brumble. He stood the same way he always does, right at the top with a gaze of disdain and a flat mouth. Slicked white hair matches his raven black suit, with a single white rose acting as corsage. Regina's eyes flicker in amusement. How about that? He put in a little more effort this year. 

Regina takes a steady breath, and slowly, with care, rests her picture frame facing outward, so that Mayor Brumble could see. This is the year, she hopes, he will really see. Only when the frame is settled does Regina step back, hands coming to link over her chest.

One by one, each of the Families of the Black March follow suit, setting their picture frames down with the same amount of unease. All facing outward, all facing a man that looked like he would rather be anywhere but there. Even Alexandra casts a knowing look to Regina, who nods like she knew -- that's because he never wanted to be here.

But he needed to remember. 

They all needed to.

The tension between Brumble and the Families is so thick that it permeates the air, sliced only by the cutting glares. The sharpest being Regina, who waited all year for this exact moment.

It is as if Brumble knows this. "You came," he says, so matter of fact that it makes her even angrier than she anticipated. 

"You know we would."

"And yet, it didn't stop me from hoping you wouldn't."

She scoffs, motioning to the sea of frames with faces that, she noticed, Brumble wouldn't look at. "Yet here we are," she replies, "and so are they."

Brumble comes down the steps then, all with the swagger of a man who had too much money and not enough worries -- a man that didn't care. His hands, just as aged as Regina's, slide into his expensive suit pockets until he comes to the other side of the table. He's not looking at them. He's not even looking at the Families, who have all crowded around the tables.

He is looking right at Regina.

"So ask me," he says, turning away just long enough to pick up a bouquet of roses off the ground and cradle it against his chest. "I know you want to. That is why you're here, isn't it? Why all of you are? You want to ask me. So, ask me."

It's the one thing Regina agrees with him on: she did want to ask him, and the conviction in her voice, she hoped, would be enough to get the answer this year.

Her hands come to the table now, resting flat, bending over the faces of those whom she had come in honor of. Her eyes are steady, body bent, voice steady. 

"Mayor Brumble. You know just as much as I do that it's time. So with this, I ask you..."

Do not falter. Do not fail. 

"...will you finally remember?"

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

After reading this, I think my critique of your short story the other day was uninformed. Clearly, you know what you're doing and are quite good at it. Of course I now want to know what it's all about.

[Emunah June.]

Samuel!

No no, your review on my short story was completely justified and received. It only helps me improve my work, but I am so glad you enjoyed this!

[DIVYA]

The prologue holds much promise. An event that holds much significance and the power of which hasn't waned over the years. I want to read further to know what transpired. What brings them back every year. The characters are written very well too. I can see them in my mind, hear them speak. That's great storytelling. This was a compelling read. I'll look forward to the next chapter.

[Emunah June.]

Oh, if you like it, thats the hugest honor! I hope to continue to work on it, develop it, and pray to keep your attention!!! Thank you so so much for the review!!!

[abletec]

Emunah June, this is a really good start. I'm glad to see a young lady spending time on writing rather than Youtube, although I have nothing against that platform.

You've veiled the conflict, stringing it along, and that's good. It creates suspense. You've also given us glimpses into several characters, & it creates a desire to read more.

Tenses waffled around a bit between past and present. Since this is a prologue, it should likely be written entirely in the past tense. There were also some spelling errors (including prologue) lol! All easily fixed stuff. Please keep up the good work.

Please don't hesitate to add me as a friend if that's of interest. My grandson's your age, so a grandma friend is something you might not want. On the other hand, it might give you a perspective your peers can't. Again, keep it up!

[Emunah June.]

I have absolutely always sucked in keeping tenses the same. I am really trying hard to be better about it, but Im just...awful with it. Your review means SOOOOO much to me, especially because its been ages where I have attempted a non poetic novel. Thank you so so much!!

[abletec]

Emunah June, In the scheme of things, tenses are pretty small, though they might serve to piss off an editor. Readers can also find tense changes a bit jarring. You might better be able to spot them if you read your work aloud. Use Grammarley perhaps--I think it flags that sort of stuff. In the end, it's thoroughly fixable. What's most important is your story. Get it out there! Share it w/the world! I'm anxiously awaiting more.

[Emunah June.]

That makes me so happy to hear. I'll get right to work! Thank you so much!

[abletec]

Emunah June, study the craft of writing, find those who will support you, & write what's in your heart. Anything related to writing mechanics is imminently fixable. Not that it's unimportant--it's just easily fixed. Your big job is to share your poems & stories. No other person & absolutely no software in the world can do that. Focus on the important stuff. The piddly stuff will take care of itself, 1 way or the other. Believe me when I tell you I've critiqued a lot of writing in my time, & you're not alone in terms of having trouble w/tenses. Consider it a blessing if that's the only thing that's problematic for you.

[FlatDaddy]

Well, I couldn't wait here to write a review, I had to jump right into the first chapter, and I wrote a long review there that covered both your prologue AND the first chapter. That shows how much you got me hooked from the start. You sure have a nice touch with the words, Em. I'm more used to brow-beating my words into submission; you, on the other hand, don't even need to coax them. They just pour onto the page, looking for their perfect place and settle in, nice and cozy.
I just love Regina, her determination and stamina, her take-no-prisoners attitude, her red hair blazing the way forward. And Brumble, that fat, pale, ego-absorbed rich yay-hoo (as we say in the South): what's his problem? Inquiring people want to know!

Okay, I don't know how the Families, the Black Clad Marchers, Regina, the a*****e mayor and the sweet Selene all fit together, but having already read the first chapter, I'm off to the second to see what I can uncover!

[S€H@J]

The greatest recall
The title quite fits the context and the concept is lovely
I'd hope to see and read the whole plot