MooZombie: This was a story I wrote for a class book report (I'm glad that's over with) and I also read it to some friends who said that is was really good, which encouraged me to put it here(YAAA!). Most of you probably don't remember this part, in ch.19, of the story so I'll provide an excerpt below, I hope you enjoy;) Read & Review!


Faye Belle, palsied and gray-skinned, cannot remember her own age. Her stories unfold like soft linen. She remembers hiding in a steamer trunk with a little white girl while Yankee soldiers stomped through the house. Twenty years ago, she held that same white girl, by then an old woman, in her arms while she died. Each proclaimed their love as best friends. Swore that death could not change this. That color meant nothing. The white woman's grandson still pays Faye Belle's rent. When she's feeling strong, Faye Belle sometimes goes over and cleans up his kitchen. (Kathryn Stockett, chapter 19)


I stand up, old bones cracking, and enter Aibileen's kitchen. The skinny and extremely tall white lady, Miss Skeeter, sat at the table with her typewriter. I sat down and Aibileen pours me a cup of tea. I sat there trying to get the words out, trying to tell the story that I that was my live. Then I spoke.

"It was during the start of the civil war in Jackson, Mississippi…"


…and tending to my mistress Mary Tate. Mary was about 7 with long, straight blond hair and blue eyes; a stark contrast to her mother, Ann Hall, who has short, curly brown hair and brown eyes. Miss Hall was widowed after Mary turned 3 and I've been here ever since. Mary and I can always be found in one of the large houses rooms, playing around with her dolls and toys that she always gets for her birthday. I look out the upper story window and see the plantation, all 600 acres of it. Me being light brown and the same age as my mistress means that I don't have to be out there in the heat of summer working my back off.

"What'cha lookin' at over there Faye."

I turn back around to see Mary staring at me.

"Oh, I was just looking at the fields and thinking of how hot it has to be outside," I stammer.

"Yeah," she replies, "It must be real hot; you can even see the heat rising off the fields."

I look and see that she is right, but something was wrong. The heat waves weren't all clustered together more spread apart making a half circle.

'CRACK'

A loud boom went through the air and I saw old man Walter, the overseer of field number three, falling to his knees then onto his face. He lay there, perfectly still, not a single mark on him except for a large growing red stain that was seeping through his white shirt. Men in blue uniforms step out of the fields holding rifles, Yankees!

Did that really just happen, am I dreaming?!

I turn towards Mary and saw the same look of shock that is likely plastered across mine.

"We need to leave," I say with a hint of fear.

She nods. "What about ma, she's still at the store? If she comes home and we're not here…" she trained off.

I knew exactly what she meant. If she finds the house in ruins and we aren't home then she would probably kill herself over the grief of another loss. But now was not the time to think about that.

I grab Mary hand and we sprint downstairs. A Yankee jumps out at us as we reach the bottom. Mary and I scream and drop to our knees, waiting for whatever would come next. We hear a grunt and look up. John, the butler, had grabbed the Yankee and held him in a choke hold. The soldier began to struggle as he fought for oxygen.

"GO, RUN!" John yells.

We do. We run out of the house only to find a battle. Dozens of Yankee soldiers are holding rifles, some men manned cannons. Smoke gathers everywhere as the men fire. They shoot the white and black workers that are trying to defend the plantation. Screams came from all directions. It was chaos.

"FAYE, WHERE DO WE GO!?" Mary shouts, a mere whisper in the battle.

I look around, trying to peer through the smoke.

"THERE," I shouted, pointing towards a nearby steamer truck.

The both of us sprint for our lives. Smoke in our lungs, shots in our ears, blooded mud coating our feet and legs. We knew that if we didn't make it, we would die.

The steamer truck was feet in front of us when I hear a high pitch scream. I stop and hear my name being called out by Mary. I couldn't see her but I knew she was in pain so I follow her voice.

"FAYE, FAYE, WHERE ARE YOU, FAYE!"

"I'm here, I'm here, don't you worry, I'm here" I sooth.

"MY ARM, IT BURNS!" she wails.

I realize, as I touch the bleeding hole, that she was shot in the shoulder.

"IT HURTS!"

"I know it does, I know it hurts, just hang in there."

Mary made the most dreadful moan "DO SOM'ING!"

"Mary, I have to carry you to the truck. I need you to not to fight back, you got that."

"Y-EEESSS," she chokes, "DON'T FIGHT BACK."

I lift her and tell her to wrap her good arm over my shoulder. I slowly make me way over the bodies of people I once knew. Most of the fighting outside has ended but I can here shouts in the house. I could even see my fellow cabin mates helping out the Yankees. I trudge on.

We make it to the steamer truck and wait for the fighting to stop.

"Why…did…you help…back there," Mary huffs.

"Well I…I couldn't just…let you die, could I?" I stammer as I try to make her a tourniquet.

"But…you didn't have…to help me. You…could've helped…the Yankees…instead, so why…me?"

I'm silent for a long time. I actually don't know why I helped her, was it a spur of the moment of something else. These thoughts raced through my head as we watch the Yankees raid and set fire to the house and fields. Smoke rises and is carried off by the wind, toward the town of Jackson.

"W…well?"

"I…I…I helped you because of friendship!" I say, determinedly.

I stare at her and she stares back then, then something clicks. A feeling, a beautiful and magical feeling that was created by the word friendship. It changed something inside of us. Something that will, no matter what, last forever.


"And there they sat, two lost and lonely girls looking for each other to hold onto."

It was the year 1947 and I was at Mary Tate's house, now Mary Cook. We lived and grew up with each other ever since that fateful day. Where ever one went, the other followed. We barely noticed that blacks didn't have the same rights as whites. There's nothing we don't know about each other, even when we started to have families of our own.

Mary called for me that day because she sensed that her final moments were upon her, it's only a matter of time. When I got to her house, she was in her bed. I walked over to her and she asked me to hold her. I did so knowing this moment wouldn't last.

"Tell me a story, Faye," she whispers.

I sat, thinking, then began with "It was during the start of the civil war in Jackson, Mississippi…"


She died quietly in my arms looking at peace with our story of a new friendship


I stare at Miss Skeeter and can tell that she understood. She understood that Mary and I swore nothing could change our friendship and that color meant nothing.


MooZombie: Sooooo, what did you think. Did you enjoy it? During the making of this story, I couldn't decide what the names should be but in the end... it trend out great. Review please! (Literary Criticism is encouraged)