Monologue: Songs in the Key of G
Character: Ginia Solana
Rating: PG
Word count: 751
This is from the perspective of Damantru!Ginia as opposed to Aubergine Dreams!Ginia.
Basic elements: Avery's her older brother, Amelia's her older sister, their family owns a bar/lounge, were labeled as pro-slavery by the community, and when the slave riots/revolts broke out, her family was attacked and killed and the bar set on fire. Poor Gi. Oh, and as a result of the attack, she's now mute (though I'm thinking about changing her history to make her born mute instead of later losing her voice).
And for some reason, I keep hearing Ginia saying this (if she could talk) with a Southern accent.
Momma had the sweetest voice you could hear. A low jazz alto crooning songs about summer nights filled with sweet kisses and losing oneself in a lover’s embrace, singing the blues about the men that’d come and gone, or humming lullabies about a mother’s love for her two headstrong daughters and one rambunctious son.
You couldn’t take your eyes off of her once she stepped onto the stage and tenderly caressed the microphone as she poured her heart out. Sometimes there wasn’t a dry eye in the bar when she was done singing.
The slavers called her a real songbird and joked about adding her to their collection. Or at least we tried to believe they were joking. We all saw the way they leered at her as she walked on and off the stage, hoping to catch a glimpse of extra skin as her dress shifted around her legs. We saw the way they called out to her and pawed at her as she walked by, laughing as she paled and looked away.
Papa never stood for that. Whenever someone made her uncomfortable, he always stepped in and told them to leave her alone. They usually listened, but sometimes there was a slaver or two who just kept causing trouble and we had to throw them out. Though even so, Papa was good at making sure no fights broke out.
It was Avery always starting fights and getting hurt. Amelia and I pleaded with him not to, but he never listened to us. Given the chance, he’d land a punch on anyone that caused Momma (or Lia or me) any grief. While we patched up his cuts and iced his bruises, we warned him one day a hunter was going to have his head, but he always laughed it off, kissed our foreheads, and went back to work. Surprisingly, he never did get in any trouble. Most of the people he beat up were well-behaved the next time they came around, even shying away from Avery a little when he walked by and grinned at them.
But things changed after that one time. Momma was stepping off stage after her set when someone came up and began pawing at her and tried to drag her away. Papa was helping a customer at another table and didn’t see it right away, and I was crouched down behind a counter, but suddenly there came an awesome cracking sound, like someone just bashed a melon open with a bat.
There was Avery, broken Gibson in one hand and a man kneeling on the ground in front of him, his face covered with blood and moaning loudly. I don’t know if it was Momma or Lia or me, but someone screamed at Avery to stop as he raised his guitar a second time. But he didn’t listen and he swung his instrument against and brought it down on the man’s head (and oh, there was that horrible crack again).
Three men rushed Avery and Papa ran forward to try to calm things down as Lisa grabbed Momma and pulled her off stage. The three of us hid in the backroom, Momma holding the two of us as she silently cried. We sat in there all night, praying for Avery and Papa’s safety. In the morning, Papa knocked on the door. He was bruised up and had an eyepatch over his left eye, and oh, did he look horrible. We all cried some more as we held him closely before he led us out to see the bar.
Broken pieces of wood and glass lined the ground and most of the tables and chairs were broken. Amelia’s keyboard was smashed (she cradled the broken pieces and wailed over it) and the microphone stand was bent in half.
And then there was Avery. Oh, Avery. He was lying on the stage, both his arms wrapped up in bandages. He was bruised and bloody and when he tried to speak, it came out thick and slurred. He looked bad, really bad, but he still turned to look at us, blinking from behind black eyes, and gave a bloody smile before he passed out.
Momma didn’t sing anymore after that and it was awhile before Avery was able to pick up a guitar, and when he did, he absently strummed at the strings for a few minutes before setting it down.
But that was all right.
Two weeks later, the revolts began and they were all killed.
Rating: PG
Word count: 751
This is from the perspective of Damantru!Ginia as opposed to Aubergine Dreams!Ginia.
Basic elements: Avery's her older brother, Amelia's her older sister, their family owns a bar/lounge, were labeled as pro-slavery by the community, and when the slave riots/revolts broke out, her family was attacked and killed and the bar set on fire. Poor Gi. Oh, and as a result of the attack, she's now mute (though I'm thinking about changing her history to make her born mute instead of later losing her voice).
And for some reason, I keep hearing Ginia saying this (if she could talk) with a Southern accent.
Momma had the sweetest voice you could hear. A low jazz alto crooning songs about summer nights filled with sweet kisses and losing oneself in a lover’s embrace, singing the blues about the men that’d come and gone, or humming lullabies about a mother’s love for her two headstrong daughters and one rambunctious son.
You couldn’t take your eyes off of her once she stepped onto the stage and tenderly caressed the microphone as she poured her heart out. Sometimes there wasn’t a dry eye in the bar when she was done singing.
The slavers called her a real songbird and joked about adding her to their collection. Or at least we tried to believe they were joking. We all saw the way they leered at her as she walked on and off the stage, hoping to catch a glimpse of extra skin as her dress shifted around her legs. We saw the way they called out to her and pawed at her as she walked by, laughing as she paled and looked away.
Papa never stood for that. Whenever someone made her uncomfortable, he always stepped in and told them to leave her alone. They usually listened, but sometimes there was a slaver or two who just kept causing trouble and we had to throw them out. Though even so, Papa was good at making sure no fights broke out.
It was Avery always starting fights and getting hurt. Amelia and I pleaded with him not to, but he never listened to us. Given the chance, he’d land a punch on anyone that caused Momma (or Lia or me) any grief. While we patched up his cuts and iced his bruises, we warned him one day a hunter was going to have his head, but he always laughed it off, kissed our foreheads, and went back to work. Surprisingly, he never did get in any trouble. Most of the people he beat up were well-behaved the next time they came around, even shying away from Avery a little when he walked by and grinned at them.
But things changed after that one time. Momma was stepping off stage after her set when someone came up and began pawing at her and tried to drag her away. Papa was helping a customer at another table and didn’t see it right away, and I was crouched down behind a counter, but suddenly there came an awesome cracking sound, like someone just bashed a melon open with a bat.
There was Avery, broken Gibson in one hand and a man kneeling on the ground in front of him, his face covered with blood and moaning loudly. I don’t know if it was Momma or Lia or me, but someone screamed at Avery to stop as he raised his guitar a second time. But he didn’t listen and he swung his instrument against and brought it down on the man’s head (and oh, there was that horrible crack again).
Three men rushed Avery and Papa ran forward to try to calm things down as Lisa grabbed Momma and pulled her off stage. The three of us hid in the backroom, Momma holding the two of us as she silently cried. We sat in there all night, praying for Avery and Papa’s safety. In the morning, Papa knocked on the door. He was bruised up and had an eyepatch over his left eye, and oh, did he look horrible. We all cried some more as we held him closely before he led us out to see the bar.
Broken pieces of wood and glass lined the ground and most of the tables and chairs were broken. Amelia’s keyboard was smashed (she cradled the broken pieces and wailed over it) and the microphone stand was bent in half.
And then there was Avery. Oh, Avery. He was lying on the stage, both his arms wrapped up in bandages. He was bruised and bloody and when he tried to speak, it came out thick and slurred. He looked bad, really bad, but he still turned to look at us, blinking from behind black eyes, and gave a bloody smile before he passed out.
Momma didn’t sing anymore after that and it was awhile before Avery was able to pick up a guitar, and when he did, he absently strummed at the strings for a few minutes before setting it down.
But that was all right.
Two weeks later, the revolts began and they were all killed.