The night the Rhymer went whack

14

Flowers had become a sort of delicacy for the rich and the poor. Both held their bunches close to heart and hidden deep within their homes. The former, as a symbol of wealth, the latter, as a symbol of the beauty of the past.

Straffe enjoyed watching Dashet fall in love. He had gotten close to the young man ever since they met a few years back and witnessing him develop was pleasurable. Dashet was strikingly good looking, young, determined, worldly, yet, as Straffe would say, lonely. Not shy or quiet but reserved and self-protected. He had shared his upbringing, shedding light on why he was who he was, but the aspect of the companion he so desperately needed was missing. And Sharissa changed all of that.

She, with her beauty hidden beneath a desire to stay common, awakened the final piece of completion to wholeness he had been missing since those childhood women showered him with affection. As a result, his playing gained further depth, his singing more soulful and his development influenced not just the entire compound but with his growing strength, Straffe, who began expanding the territory. A house here, another complex there, another street, a block, more dogs and more happiness. “Maybe there’s hope for this world after all,” became Straffe’s mantra.

It wasn’t uncommon for a transient or a murderer, fed up with their life and ways, especially after realizing a hidden creative talent, to venture to the edge of the compound on their hands and knees begging for asylum, and it was Straffe who had to make the decision to accept or reject. If the dogs didn’t dismantle the newcomer to pieces that was a good sign, as Straffe’s first order of business was to protect his creation, but he was a humanist at heart and understood their plight. So, with the newly acquired areas, he used those spaces somewhat like a netherworld, giving all newcomers a trial, and once deemed worthy, they could ultimately be accepted by all.

He called himself Reshod. ID hadn’t been necessary for years as there were no jails, credit or accountability. With fresh, dripping blood on his hands, he approached the gate exhausted and wailing for assistance. Having had just killed, he was now begging for forgiveness and pleading with a “fed up with this world,” sentiment that Straffe related to, seemingly clouding his judgement of remorse.

Hesitant, but erroring on the side of acceptance, Straffe paid no attention to the growling dogs and allowed Reshod to enter. Like all the other questionables that gained entrance, although inside, he was settled on the outskirts. He’d have to earn his full acceptance to The Sound Factory.

Some made it, some didn’t. Missing the thrill and itching for a return to that life of crime, they would sneak off, re-entering the world that made this place a necessary safe haven. But Reshod stayed. And matured. And gave up his murderous ways. He found a peace in his new surroundings; a harmony he forgot existed. With him now on the inside and seeing how their master accepted this newcomer, the dogs weren’t as apprehensive and eventually, Reshod befriended a few by giving them snacks and treats, which a forbidden practice soon discovered by Straffe, and he ordered him to stop immediately. Only he could feed the dogs. Strike one, which was actually a banishment offense, but surprising to all, Straffe allowed him to stay.

Deft with his hands, Reshod regained Straffe’s confidence by helping to fix all the new properties they had acquired over the past few months. He worked diligently, regaining assurance with every pipe laid and nail hammered. He even planted flowers. Straffe sniffed when he noticed them for the first time. “Lovely. Just what the compound needs,” he concluded as he summoned Reshod closer. “Magnificent,” Straffe said, as he surveyed the land before settling into a cold gaze, eye to eye, with Reshod.

“These are lovely,” she referenced toward the roses she was witnessing. Reshod plucked one then handed it to her.

“And they smell even lovelier,” he remarked, as she brought it to her nose.

“Mmmmm,” she exhaled to the intoxicating aroma.

“I’m Reshod.” He extended, offering his hand.

“Sharissa.” She shook Reshod’s hand, still sniffing the rose. “I thought flowers were extinct? Especially roses,” she said.

“A few seeds I heard may still be around, but they’re crazy rare and only sold on the black market. For a handsome price too. And most people don’t dare put ’em outside. That’s an easy signal for a robbery.”

Enchanted, she reached and plucked a lily, then cherished the moment, absorbing its aroma. “Do you play?” she asked, pointing toward the guitar slung across his back. Reshod half-smiled, politely turned his back and resumed planting and pruning. She didn’t press, shrugged, then sat down and played her flute. And watched as birds of all colors, bees she had never seen before, and chipmunks and squirrels and gerbils all boldly emerged.

Straffe strolled up, hands behind his back and pleased at what he saw. “So you’ve met Reshod,” he said as he glanced to see him planting seed after seed. Sharissa smiled her affirmation and continued to play. “He’s done good things,” Straffe concluded and with that he turned on his heels and strode away, lightly tapping his finger in beat with Sharissa’s tune.