Where the Sunflowers Grow
By
Rebecca Anna Coleman

-3-
My Will

I took a deep breath as I peered toward the glowing television screen. I was back home now, mom had called me before I'd had a chance to venture into girlhood. Mom did not feel safe driving home in a blinding rain storm. So we cut our little trip into Jackson short. I was a little disappointed. But I guess I just had to wait patiently and deliberately for the right opportunity to act, rather than acting on impulse.

One of my favorite historical figures, Ieyasu Tokugawa, had a saying, “Little bird, if you don't sing, I will wait for you. So I just had to wait for my chance to let the caged bird free. In the meantime I'll just just keep working, keep saving my money, and keep my eyes and ears open.

It was that thought that drifted through my head as I peered toward the glowing television screen. On the screen I could see a deep, dense jungle. The jungle reminded me of the backdrops of those old Vietnam era war movies. Through this dense, underbrush moved lumbering humanoid robots known as Gundams.

And then all of a sudden, from the underbrush came a greenish, nightmarish looking robot. This greenish, nightmarish looking robot attacked the white, humanoid robot with something of a hatched blade that was glowing a deep red. The screen then cuts to the pilot of the white humanoid robot screaming as the greenish nightmarish robot brought down it hatched on the other robot arm. Five seconds later a bright yellow and orange blast filled the screen.

And that is what made Toonami great. Toonami is an American late-night television programming block that mostly broadcasts Japanese animation programs or anime. Well the more darker, grayer anime. There was a calmer, more kid friendly version that aired in the afternoons. The difference in the two was simple, in the more kid friendly version, you know the one that aired in the afternoons?

Well, that type of anime was more clear-cut, you had good guys and bad guys. You also had cute creatures who just repeated their names over and over. It was also tame, because when people died they were often brought back to life. Like when the Sailor Moon and her allies were all killed at the end of season one and brought back to life because of the power of friendship. Or when everybody who either died in Dragon Ball Z were brought back by wishing upon the Dragon Balls? Or when Ash Ketchum the main character of Pokemon was brought back to life after being turned to stone in the first movie by the magical tears of those creatures.

Anyway you get my point. Late-night anime was different. It felt different, it had different messages.

The next anime was a bit different. Inuyasha was a kind of melting pot. It was a kind of slice of life, fantasy, survival, historical (?) anime. The anime followed the misadventures and adventures of a girl named Kagoma Higurashi, who was from modern Japan who one day got pulled into a mystic well by a demon and transported to warning states period.. their she met a half-dog, half-demon named Inuyasha.

I considered Inuyasha to be something of a more adult version or more teenage version of Sailor Moon. Mainly because when people died, they stayed dead. And also some episodes focused on child sacrifice to regional powerful demons.. brutal.

Anyway this episode of Inuyash was one of those which took place in modern day Japan. Kagoma Higurashi and her friends were walking to or from school when out of the corner of her eye, Kogoma spotted the ghost of a little girl. The girl was wearing a thick coat, which Kagoma found strange considering it was early spring or late spring? Anyway it must have been hot as Mississippi as one of Kagoma friends mentioned how unseasonable the weather has been.

Anyway, I'm not going to give a play by play of what happens, only that in the end Kagoma with the help of Inuyash and a friendly demon named Soul-Piper helped sooth the lonely ghost girl before she was dragged into the ever burning pits of Hell. Shinto Hell.. see what I meant by Late-night anime hitting harder than the friendly after school anime. This was a perfect example, the soul of a lost little girl who died in an apartment fire, is chained, yes chained, with iron chains and dragged to the very closet where she was burned to death in order to drop into the pit of Hell.

I was slightly unhinged by this. But what unhinged me most was the ending theme song. There was something deeply melancholy about the ending credits. But the whole feeling I got from the ending theme was a deep feeling of being disconnected. It kind of summoned up how I felt on a rainy, foggy Sunday morning. That feeling is deeply disconnected from reality.

Up next was the last anime before the station went off air for the morning. It was a more comical slice of life anime. The anime was called You're Under Arrest. The anime focused on the many adventures and misadventures of two female traffic wardens. The first one was the mechanically-skilled Miyuki Kobawawa and the tomboyish, impulsive Natsumi Tsujimoto. I like it.. it was kind of a breath of fresh air. Also there was one character who spoke to me most of all. One who I felt a deeper kinship with. Her name is Aoi Futaba and she was the only anime character I knew of who was a man.. but lived his or should I say her daily life as a woman.

And she was an ideal woman too, but that I mean she was demure, gentle, she was really kind with the kid characters. Was kind of the den mother of the group. She blended and brewed her own tea, handled all the crafting in the station, was the one who knew all the latest gossip, who knew all the latest fashion trends and who was always giving make-overs and fashion advice.

I paid little attention to the episode. But one line struck me, well it struck me, and that line was delivered by Aoi Futable. “I might have the body of a man, but I have the soul of a woman..” That line stood out to me, it stood out so much that I had to quickly write it now. Because I felt there had to be more to that line.. some hidden truth and by damn I was going to unlock it's hidden power and make that caged bird within my soul sing!

End of Chapter 3

-4-
Holy, Holy, Holy!

I took a deep breath as I lit the altar candles. I normally skipped church, but I remembered this Sunday I was supposed to acolyte. And besides, most of the extended Potter would be here this Sunday morning. I guess I should take this opportunity to tell you a little about my family. My family, the 'Potter' family is well known around these parts. My family was among the first wave of settlers to arrive in Benton back when Benton was nothing more than hardwood bottom.

Back then this was considered the frontier. This was at least a hundred years before the War. I mean this town used to be called 'Hannah's Landing' before being changed to Benton. I don't know when or why they changed the name of the town. But one thing I do know, in the churchyard behind the church several generations of my people slept in the peaceful assurance of the resurrection.

Once I lit the altar candles I bowed and retreated toward the vestment room. Judging by the small trickle of people filtering in from the streets, I'd figured I'd had around fifteen to twenty minutes to get into vestments before the service started.

The vestment room was located toward the back of the church and smelled of month balls and incense. I'd hope I'd get a head start but it seemed the youth group had already let out. And the small room was already overflowing with people. And then it dawned on me that today was a feast day. That would explain why four younger acolytes helping  us this morning . I did some mental math and then it dawned on me, I was the oldest of the group.

“Morning.” A young woman with flaming red hair said as she gazed toward me. “I was wondering if you'll make it. Since you played hooky this morning and skipped Sunday School. We had donuts.”

I blinked. And slowly I unzipped my jet black hoodie. Revealing a black, graphic, anime tee-shirt that featured Sailor Moon. I then reached up and took down an empty iron clothes hanger. Once the clothes hanger was in my hands I threaded my hoodie onto it and hung it back up.

“I slept in.” I muttered.

The young woman blinked and blinked again. She then reached into her purse and pulled out a hairbrush. “I see, and you forgot to brush your hair this morning too? Do you also forget to brush your teeth? And did you shower?”

“...” I blushed a little. “I brushed my teeth, I washed my face, I even changed underwear.” I said, rolling my eyes as I reached up and picked out the small size cassock they had. I slipped it on and took a deep breath as I started to button the blasted thing from the top down.

“Oh and you totally forgot the bird's nest that is your hair?” The woman said, taking a deep breath.

“I'm running on less than five hours of sleep.” I muttered.

“...” The woman paused and then took a deep breath as she walked over and started to button up the cassock. She then settled the white Surplice on my shoulders. She then brushed the front off.

“Thank you mum.” I said, smirking a little.

“Hold still.” She muttered as she walked toward me with the brush. Several seconds passed as she ran the bristles of the brush through my hair. Muttering about how long it was and how thick it was. All of this caused quite a scene too. The younger helpers all just stood around and gawked at me, some even giggled. I felt my cheeks bloom with color.

“There.” She said slipping a ponytail holder into my hair. “A nice neat ponytail, clean vestments.”

She then paused and took a deep breath.

“Also don't take this the wrong way, but the way you look right now, kind of reminds me of Persephone.” She said, smirking a little. “I mean long black hair, enough eyeliner to put any metal boy-band to shame, the faint smell of hot-topic.”

A chorus of giggles filled the room. A few moments later like a bat, in came Fr. Tremain. Fr. Tremain had been the parish priest of St. Mary's Episcopal Church for at least thirty or so years. He was a tall, gray haired man with a dropping chin and gray-blue eyes that always seemed tinted with sadness. He looked like a stiff wind would knock him down. But when he spoke, he spoke with authority.

“Are the candles lit, Mr. Potter?” He said as he started to get vested up.

“Yes Father.” I said.

“Good, now let us pray.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Lord be with you.”

“And also with you.”

“Lord God, Father of all true believers. We give you great thanks, for kindling in the hearts of the youth of this parish a burning desire to serve at your altar. Humble, we, your devoted followers, ask you to cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your holy word.”

Prayer concluded we were ushered outside. The brick paved courtyard echoed with our footfalls. A moment later we were lining up at the back of the church. It was a full house this Sunday. I knew the church would seat at least two hundred people, and on this given Sunday it seemed all two hundred seats were filled.

Slowly I walked over and carefully I picked up the processional cross. I closed my eyes, the thing weighed a ton. And of course with St. Mary's Episcopal Church being an 'High Church' Parish. The Processional cross of course had to be topped with a crucifix. Cross in hand I took my position in front of the column and took a deep breath.

I had a lot to think about. But now I need to get through this service.

End of Chapter Four.

Where the Sunflowers Grow
By
Rebecca Anna Coleman

-5-
Benton Academy
Benton Academy was a private, mostly white, mostly protestant, Christian school that only allowed the sons and daughters of the bourgeoisie of Benton to become students. The academy had started off as a segregation academy. The academy had started when a group of Benton's leading businessmen decided that they would not send their children to the newly desegregated public schools. Among those businessmen had been my grandfather Sherman Potter.

Anyway, it was a rainy, foggy, Monday and the bright, alluring lights of the Metro Center lingered at the edge of my mind. I felt ill at ease, the events of the last few days were starting to weigh on me a little. My mind felt like a bunch of puzzle pieces that somebody had just dropped on the floor.

Now, I did not fit the mold of your average Benton Academy student. And to be honest that's fine with me. Now, not fitting the mold of your average student, I tended to spend my one hour of self-study alone in the school's library. Like I said before I was something of a writer and something of an aspiring artist.

And though I had taken some art-classes over the years, none of my success had come from those teachers, who mocked and belittled my talents. Who had told me time and time again I was wasting my talents on something as trivial as comics. Who had taken great delight in defacing each of my drawings with red ink. One day when I become successful, I will come back here and rub it in their face.
Now, I'm sure you're asking yourself how did I learn to draw? Well first I started by trying to mimic what I saw on early morning anime. I would draw from memory scenes from various shows. I think I started drawing Pokemon and then moved on to trying to copy the art style of Sailor Moon. I had to be around twelve at the time. I remember I would spend hours upon hours trying to nail the art style.

And well written. Writing came later, you see Mom was concerned that I was not spending enough time reading and so around the time I was getting into Pokemon she discovered that a series of small, easy to read Pokemon books had been published. And well she brought me the first one, and told me, if I was to read the whole book, write a five hundred word essay on it and bring it to her, she'll buy me another one.
That summer, I followed the adventures of Ash Ketchum from the humble beginnings in Pallet Town to halls of fame and fortune at the Indigo Plateau. And then beyond to the Orange Islands. All the while I'd refined my own art style and discovered my own voice as a writer.

If the Pokemon novels had given voice to my muse, then the many guide books that gave advice to novices just learning how to draw manga that had been translated from Japanese to English had given credence skills as an artist. Those books did not come cheap, they often ranged from twenty to thirty dollars a piece. With the more advanced books costing upwards to a hundred or so dollars.

Unlike the Pokemon novels, I had to buy those books using my own money. Money I'd earned mowing the neighbors lawns on one hundred and fifteen degree days. Or by busting my butt deep cleaning the house from top to bottom. Or picking up extra shifts at the family owned fish house or helping when I could at the family owned general store. That was on top of the countless hours I spent refining my craft, well both crafts, drawing and writing.

That is why each follower I picked up on DeviantArt or each comment somebody left on my fanfiction on Fanfiction.net felt like a small, private victory.

Anyway this rainy Monday afternoon I found myself spending my period of self-study roaming around our school's library. I was searching for new words, like I said I was an artist and a writer and well I wanted to build up both my artistic skills as well as expand my vocabulary. And what better way to learn new words than sitting down and reading the whole Merriam-Webster dictionary. I was working my way through the “T's” this afternoon when I stumbled upon one word that just struck me.

Transgender adj.
Of, relating to, or being a person whose gender identity differs from the sex the person was identified as having at birth.
I paused and then reached into my backpack. I then wrote that line down word for word. It looked like this.
'Transgender adj. Of, relating to, or being a person who gender differs from the person was identified as having at birth – Merriam-Webster dictionary'

And then as an after thought I jotted down the following note.
'I might have a body of a woman, but I have a soul of a woman. - Aoi Futable'
I then paused and took a deep breath. It seemed I was finally getting a good look at all the puzzle pieces that had been scattered across the table.

At that moment the bell sounded. Bringing a premature end to my research. But now, at least I'd figured out two possible puzzle pieces. I mean having figured out two possible puzzle pieces was a start, it was not the best start in the world. But then again I had to start somewhere.
End of Chapter Five

-6-
Albert Sidney Johnston Memorial Library

Benton had only one public library, and it was located downtown, across the street from Sunflower. Sunflower was a regional chain of grocery stores that dotted the lower Southern states, and the library was named after the Confederate general who had command Confederate forces during the Battle of Benton. Albert Sidney Johnston himself was a native of Benton, his family having arrived the second wave of settlers- some fifteen years after the first.

By then, the settlement had grown from a small collection of thatched huts along the muddy banks of the Big Black River into something resembling a modest hamlet. Census records from that period are scarce, but the few I managed to look at showed the town had a population of roughly six hundred people. It boasted a hotel, a hardware store, three general stores, an Episcopal Church, a Baptist Church, a Methodist Church, a blacksmith and several saloons. And last but not least a post office.

This was back when Benton served as the county seat of the newly formed Yazoo County, before the seat was moved some thirty miles away to the village of Manchester, which shortly changed it's name to Yazoo City. The name Yazoo was chosen to honor the river that flowed beside it. Not long after, the Johnston family arrived and cleared several hundred acres of land, forming a massive, sprawling estate they named Belle Bends Plantation. Situated along a bend in the Big Black River, the plantation produced so much cotton that it maintained its own private wharf.
Before you ask- yes, the Johnston family still owns Belle Bends. Yes, they still farm the land. And yes, the wharf exists, though today it serves as a private fishing pier. River traffic as long since dried up, and cotton is now moved primarily by truck or by rail. A short-line railroad runs downtown Benton to Belle Bends Plantation and several other plantations in the area, carrying cotton back to town to be ginned.

I know this because the line runs directly through my backyard. I also know this because my father is the president of the local bank, the Bank of Yazoo, and the Johnston family keeps most of their land money there.
Why is this important?

Because a cadet branch of the Johnston family eventually donated their townhouse to the then-thriving village of Benton. That house-the old Johnston residence-became what is now known as the Albert Sidney Johnston Memorial Library. Its claim to fame being one of the oldest public libraries in the state of Mississippi. The building sits on four and a half acres of land that formed something of a triangle.
Within that triangle stands the Johnston Memorial Library, the Main Street Middle School, a statue erected by the Daughters of the Confederacy, and a fountain. Now that you have a good idea of were I am, it's time to tell you what I'm doing. I'm conducting a bit of field research. At the moment, I have one guidepost-one word. I need more, and that need has led me here.

The library is the only place in town that offers unlimited access to a complete set of encyclopedias. It also provides limited access to a new thing called the “Word Wide Web,” which is suppose to house all the information ever collected by humanity. At least, that what our science teacher told us. I sometimes imagine that one day this “World Wide Web” will connect the entire world, and that people will spend countless hours of their days surfing it. Perhaps it will even change the way we view the world around us. Or maybe it will fade out and be forgotten altogether. But if that ever happens, the people providing it will have to stop charging by the hour- which I know will never happen.
And yes I have dipped my toes into the internet. My dad owns a computer, and I'm sometimes allowed to use it. Our school even has a computer and I sometimes use that. I just don't feel safe researching this stuff using the family's computer, I mean I barely feel safe enough using it to post my artwork. Or the weird fanfiction stories my mind often conjures up.

Also my Uncle Cliff, once told me that someday there would be something called A.I., which stands for “Artificial Intelligence,” and that it would help humanity achieve enlightenment and fundamentally change how we think and interact with the world. To me, that sounded like the kind of cheesy science-fiction idea that came from the crock-pot mind of Steven Spielberg.
The library was also a safe place. And here, in a quiet little reading room surrounded by dozens of hardbound copies of a dozen different dictionaries, I began my search. I was going to take the first word apart, word by word, starting with gender.

Gender n.
The behavioral, cultural, or psychological traits typically associated with one sex
I quickly wrote that down on a loose sheet of paper. Then I leaned back in the chair, folded my hands behind my head, and gazed up at the ceiling.

Gender, according to the dictionary, referred not just to biology, but to the behavioral, cultural, and psychological traits associated with one sex. The word associated caught my attention. It suggested proximity, no permanence.
As I closed my eyes, I found myself recalling the lessons that had been drilled into me by my late grandfather before his untimely passing. Lessons that still echoed in my ears. Lessons such as, “Boys don't do dishes. That's women's work.”

Or, “A man's got to stand on his own two feet to make it in this world.”

And my personal favorite was always, “Spit on it and rub some dirt on it.”

And then the one he was most famous for: “Nobody was holding, my God damned hand when I stormed the beaches at Normandy with a backpack that weighed around one hundred pounds, clutching a M1 Garand in my trembling hands. I also never asked for absolution for those twenty three Nazi bastards I killed on those cliffs.”

I opened my eyes.

I had a ton of homework that needed to be completed. But I felt another key had slipped into my pocket. Which was good enough for me.

End of Chapter Six

Where the Sunflowers Grow
By
Rebecca Anna Coleman

-7-
Fish House Blue's

The inside of the kitchen reminded of a combat zone. Line cooks were shouting orders at the top of their lungs, waitresses were rushing back and forth from the  dining room area to the kitchen, shouting at the top of their lungs, tempers were running high. It was a circus within a circus. It was your average Friday night at “Delta Pride Catfish House” a modest and rustic little seafood and steak house restaurant my uncle Cliff owned and operated.

From the outside “Delta Pride Catfish House” was not please to the eye, the parking lot was paved in wash gravel, and it had been built using old, concrete cinder blocks, it was windowless, and roof was a nothing more than several dozen sheets corrugated tin that had been bolted or nailed down. It was located just off a ribbon of concrete highway. It was about three miles or so south of the bright, neon, lights of Benton and was located at the bottom of a hill. It was surrounded by marshland on three sides.

But despite its remote location, or because of it, people drove from all four corners of the earth, each Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night to dine on “Yazoo Delta Style” deep fried catfish, that catfish that has been coated in a seasoned cornmeal breading. The side items included fried gold brown, hush-puppies, thick, hand-cut french fries, real corn bread, and of course collared greens seasoned with tiny strips of hardwood smoked bacon.

Beside Catfish, the place was famous for its “Half-Dollar” thick Delmonico cut steaks, that were only served with a king size russet baked potato, house salad and dinner roll. We also offered jumbo, butterflied gulf shrimp that could either be fried, baked or grilled. And sometimes fresh gulf snapper when we could get it.

Now “Delta Pride Catfish House” was a family business, as it was owned and staffed by mostly extended members of the Potter Family. Well so I was told, I knew for a fact that most of the employees there were either my first or second cousins or long time friends of the family. My cousin, Sarah Elizabeth Potter, or Miss. Potter as I often called her when she was being bossy was the queen of the kitchen and the dining room.

Her royal scepter was a large wooden spoon. She was five years my senior and had just graduated with an Associate Of Science in Nursing from Holmes Community College, she had also just passed her NCLEX-RN exam. She was waiting for a RN position to open at the local hospital. In the meantime she was content with helping out with the family general store and running the fish-house on weekends.

Her little sister Mary Grace Potter was my age and was one of the most junior waitresses of the group her younger brother was one the junior fry cooks. My role.. I just helped out when ever I could. I kind of fell into the sweet spot, I was paid a cash wage of three dollars and twenty five cents an hour because I washed dishes mostly. But sometimes I'll be told to run food or help the staff. Which meant I got a small share of the tips.

Normally I tried to follow my dad's advice of putting ten cents of every dollar I learned into my private savings account at Bank of Yazoo. Dad had opened that private checking account for me when I was five years old, it had been a birthday gift for me on my fifth birthday. That was around the time I started earning a small, modest allowance. I started off earning around seven dollars a week, and following his rule I'd put ten cents of every dollar into the account so I'll drop around seventy cents every week into it.

Then on my sixth birthday dad suggested that I put an extra ten cents of every Birthday, Christmas and Easter money into the account on top of the ten cents of every dollar I learned doing odd jobs around the house. Then when I started working, dad suggested I put twenty cents of every dollar into the savings account..

You get the idea, dad was a firm believer that the sooner you start saving the better you'll be in the long run, and I agreed with him. Because I often put that little bit of money into my savings account, at the end of each week and forgot about it. But lately I started investing more and more money into buying things guide books on how to draw manga, or into books I wanted to read.

“Hey!” A loud female voice echoed in my ear.

I turned around and there leering at me from the corner of the kitchen was Sarah Elizabeth. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, and she was leaning in slightly. I could tell she was miffed by the way she was looking at me.

“If you have time to lean, you have time to clean.” She said looking me dead in the eye. “I'm not paying you to stand around with your hands in your pocket, daydreaming or doing whatever.” She said as she lifted her hands from her hips and moved a few steps in my direction.

I was about to mutter an apology but she shot me down.

“I don't want to hear it, if I catch you leaning one more time in your shift I'm going to dock your pay for a quarter of an hour. If I catch you leaning after that. I'm going to write you up. If I catch you a third time, I'm going to clock you out, send you home and you won't be allowed to come back until you talk to Uncle Cliff.” She was now mere inches from me. She then poked out her finger and poked me in the chest. “Do we have an understanding, cousin?”

“Yes ma'am!” I stuttered as I nearly snapped to attention.

“Good.” She said, giving me a feral looking smile. I could tell she just had her teeth polished because they seemed to glow like pearls. She then turned away from me. The whole kitchen it seemed had stopped what they were doing mid-task to watch Sarah Elizabeth tear me a new hole.

“And that goes for everyone here!” She shouted. “Come on, move it people! Were down a waitress and a fry cook this evening. And we have a dining room full of guests who want fresh catfish! So let's move on.” With that she turned away from me and stalked away.

The next hour and a half was hellish. I could barely look up, I was either running food, or busting a table. Sometimes I was tossed toward the sink and told to wash the dishes. Other times I was pulled away from the sink by the collar of my shirt and told to run some food.

After ninety minutes of this it seemed we were finally getting a space where we could breathe again. Then something happened. Something happened that made the warm blood that was flowing through my body turn to ice. The old gravel parking lot, which was almost empty, started to fill up. It seemed all of damn Yazoo, Warren, and Holmes County decided that on this given Friday, they all wanted fish, and the only place they wanted fish was “Delta Pride Catfish House” by damn not even the ending of the world was going to stop them.

“ALL HANDS ON DECK.” Shouted Sarah Elizabeth as she moved into the kitchen. “ALL HANDS TO YOUR STATIONS. JAMES, YOUR ON THE FLOOR WITH MARY GRACE, DROP MORE CATFISH AND HUSH-PUPPIES. THORN FIRE THE GRILL BACK UP. LET'S MOVE IT PEOPLE.” Her voice cut through the noise and confusion like a hot knife cuts through soft butter.

I crossed myself and muttered a prayer. I could already see the dining room starting to fill up with people. Without being told, without asking permission I rushed into the storm. I knew if I'd taken a moment to collect my thoughts Sarah Elizabeth would come storming up to me and would once more get into my face and start shouting at me. And I could tell already I was on thin ice with her, for what I did not know. But if I was on thin ice with her, she too was on thin ice with me. And I was a breath away from telling her what she could do with that wooden spoon of hers.

The storm I'd entered into was pure bedlam. It was not the people, no, the people were as good as gold. Nobody snapped at us, nobody clicked the cups of ice in their glasses. The food was coming out of the kitchen at a pretty good pace. Nobody was sending their food back, the cooks were on point, the wait staff were on point.. but none of that seemed to matter to Sarah Elizabeth who was working till.

Halfway through she rushed, when Mary Grace and I were trying to catch our breaths and get some water, she came rushing up to us. I mean that, she flew up to us. And without stopping to consider that both of us were dripping wet with sweat, and on our third glass of ice water she said.

“I need you two to get out there and turn those tables! I need those tables emptied now! Table thirteen has been here for a solid hour! Table sixteen has been here forty five minutes. We need those tables emptied. ASAP.” She said, clapping her hands.

“Bloody Hell.” I muttered. Having read the British Edition of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone had given me a crash course in using British swearing. Dad being a strict Episcopalian of the High Church breed felt a deep kinship toward the U.K edition of books. Mom, having come from the Republic of Ireland, thought the U.K Editions of certain books were the only true editions. I’m not sure if she was Orange or Green. The only thing I knew about her girlhood was she had been born, raised, and educated in County Cork. Next to that I knew nothing about her childhood. 

“..” Sarah Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at me. “Have something to say cousin?”

“It's just we've been going at it hard since three this afternoon. It is now close to eight. I just need a chance to catch my breath. I need to pause, I felt an attack coming on.” I said blushing.

“It's true..” Mary Grace said as she looked her sister directly in the eyes, something I would have never done, not in a million years. “James started coughing and wheezing a little while ago. Mrs. Lynn pulled us aside and told us to take a fifteen.” Mary Grace then added. “All the waitresses and even the line cooks have had at least thirty minutes to sit down and get something to eat and drink. We're the only two left and we're about two hours from closing.”

Sarah Elizabeth paused and then turned away.

“Okay, both of you get off the line.” She paused. “And tell the cooks to fix you something to eat.. on the house.” I guess this was her way of apologizing.

End of Chapter Seven

Where the Sunflowers Grow
By
Rebecca Anna Coleman

-8-

Fight or Flight

I took a deep breath and peered across the table at my cousin. Who seemed more focused on her plate of fried catfish and okra than looking at me. Finally she noticed me and then without thinking she eased her piece of fried fish down and looked at me.

“Something on your mind?” Mary Grace said as she peered at me.

“I've been doing a lot of thinking. A lot of research and a lot of soul searching and well I need answers that books can't give me.” I said looking down at my plate. “I need answers only somebody who's known me for my whole life can give me.”

Mary Grace blinked and then leaned back and then fixed her eyes upon me.

“Okay.” She said as she pushed her plate to the side and folded her hands in front of me. “I can tell by your tone of voice that something is really bothering you. Like, you've been off for the whole shift. Listen, I'm not a therapist or a psychologist. If something is really bothering you, you need to see one of the two down at the Madison-Yazoo Clinic on main street or go to the Yazoo-Warren Mental Health Hospital down in Yazoo City.”

“I'm not going to a goddamn shrink. I'll tie a noose around my neck and jump off a stool in the backroom before I go see one of those. All those people do is give you some pills to take and charge you an arm and a leg.” I muttered.

“James..” Mary Grace said. “That's not funny..”

“Do you see me laughing or smiling?” I paused as I peered toward Mary Grace.

“No..” She said swallowing hard. “But listen, you don't need to joke about that kind of stuff. I mean it, joking about suicide is just wrong.”

“Listen..” I said, taking a deep breath. “If I was going to fucking kill myself. Nobody would know a goddamn thing about it. I would just walk into the stock room after closing, tie a cord of rope around the rafters and tie a noose at the end and then slip the noose over my neck, and then climb up the old wooden stool we keep to reach things from the top shelve and then knock myself off. Or I would just walk out to the old iron bridge that spans the Big Black River, climb over the railing and jump into the foaming waters below. Or get dad's old shotgun, load it with buckshot, tell him I'm going hunting and then go out into the woods. Put the barrel in my mouth and squeeze the trigger.”

“...” Mary Grace paled a little. “This is not a normal conversation..”

“No, and we've gotten off topic.” I said pausing.

“Agreed.” Mary Grace looked at me again. “So what did you want to ask me?”

“We've been friends for basically forever right?” I said, taking a deep breath.

“Well, we're cousins, and we only live a few blocks from each other. We've been going to the same school since kindergarten. We've been working here since we were both old enough to carry a plate. So I guess you could count that as being friends.” Mary Grace said, forcing a laugh.

I paused. I could sense a subtle change in her tone of voice. As if she was unsure where this conversation was headed. I guess I did kind of derail the conversation a few moments ago with my causal mention of suicide had really shaken her to her core.

“When I was little. Did I ever give off any suggestions that I might have been transgender?” I asked.

Mary Grace, who had picked up a piece of okra to eat, dropped it. Her eyes seemed like they were going to pop out of her head.

“.. James..” She said, taking a deep breath. “Honestly, you did some weird things.. like how you always seemed to want to play that dumb game of 'House' like you were always willing to be the 'daughter' when we did.. which was weird because most boys your age like to play 'Solider' or something. And then you always wanted to have tea with my little plastic tea playset.. and you really liked it when we played dress-up..”

“I figured.” I said, taking a deep breath.

“Hey!” Mary Grace said, taking a deep breath. “Don't sweat that stuff. Okay?”

I stood up and took a deep breath.

“What else do you remember?” I said as I peered toward her.

“Just bits and pieces, like how you liked to play with my barbie dolls.. how one time my dad caught me and dressed you in one of my skirts because you wanted to see how it felt to wear a skirt... I think he gave you a few good licks with his leather belt for that and said after that we were not allowed to play together..” Mary Grace paused.

I took a deep breath and pushed my chair under the table.

“Hey!” She paused. “Hey! James..what's wrong?”

“Nothing.” I said walking away from the table.

“DON'T SAY THAT!” She hollered across the now mostly empty dining room.

“I SAID NOTHING IS WRONG WITH ME.” I hollered back, I then paused when I saw the hurt in her eyes and saw how her lip quivered and her eyes seemed to shimmer with unshed tears. “Sorry I did not mean to snap at you.”

“YOU'RE A BASTARD YOU KNOW THAT!” She outed back at me.
The insult stung and I flinched.

“Sorry..” She whispered a little as she moved toward me. “It's just you’re scaring me..” She paused and reached out to touch my arm. “You're the only cousin I'm close to. And you just casually mentioned killing yourself like we were talking about sports or if the fish are biting.. and now you're just getting up and walking away like nothing is wrong. Something is wrong James Alexander Potter..”

“Don't call me that..” I said, taking a deep breath. For some reason that name bothered me right now. It was like Mary Grace had taken the salt shaker from the table and picked it up, unscrewed the top and poured all the salt right into the open wound she had created by calling me a “Bastard” earlier in the conversation.

“... You're not making any sense.. you're just not!” Mary Grace called out. “THAT YOUR NAME YOU DUMB ASS!” She hollered back. “IT'S WHAT YOUR MOM AND DAD NAMED YOU!” Her voice echoed across the dining room. She even slapped the table with her open palm.

“IT IS NOT MY NAME!” I yelled back. I could not explain why my temper seemed to be rising right now. But right now the only thing I wanted to do was get away from everything and every one. I wanted to escape right now. To leave, to break away, to run away. However you put it, I wanted to leave this life behind me. To go somewhere I could start over. And with that I started toward the door.

“Just where do you think you're going?” Called out Sarah Elizabeth as she entered the dining room.

“SOMEWHERE BESIDE HERE.” I shouted my vocal cords were getting raw from all the shouting I was doing. “Also I want my wages..” I said.

“Pardon me?” Sarah Elizabeth said as she leaned in.

“I said, 'I want my wages' are you hard of hearing or just dumb?” I snapped back.

Sarah Elizabeth turned a bright red. She then marched over to the cash register, pushed a button and then yanked out a handful of bills. She then marched well, more like stomping toward me and then pushed the collection of bills toward me.

“Take it and get the fuck out.” She said as she pointed toward the door. “And don't you ever come back! I don't need somebody like you on staff. And I don't need somebody like you as my cousin.”

“...” I paused.

“What? I said you're fired. Fired and disowned, now get out before I call the police to have you removed.. Nobody talks to my little sister like that. I don't know what got into you James Alexander Potter. But until you drop the fucking attitude and apologies to my little sister I don't want anything to do with you.”

“Fine I started toward the door and I was just about to hit it when I noticed out of the corner of my eye May Grace rushing toward me.

“No.” Sarah Elizabeth said in a firm tone of voice as she wrapped her arms around her sister.

“No!” She said again. “Let him go Mary Grace, let him go, he's not worth our time.. he nothing but a fucking bastard anyway. A disgrace to the Potter name. Well, go on, get out, and don't let the door hit you where the dog should have bitten you!”

“With family like y'all.” I said “Who needs enemies?”

And with that stepped into the night. I quickly walked behind the building, pulled out an old bike, the tire on the bike was still good and it still had training wheels on it, which was good because I never really learned how to ride a bike. Quickly I pushed the bike onto the road and I started to peddle toward home. I knew there would be hell to pay when I got home.

End of Chapter Eight

Where the Sunflowers Grow
By
Rebecca Anna Coleman

-9-
Eden, Mississippi

I don't recall how long I must have peddled that old, rusting, relic of a bike down that long stretch of concrete highway. I had no way of telling time either because the battery of the piece of shit wrist watch I brought from K-Mart died the moment I left the fish-house. I just know that everything seemed to pass in a blur. I thought I should be getting closer to the bright lights of Benton, but it seemed in my rush to get away from Sarah Elizabeth and Mary Grace, I took a left instead of a right. I found this out when I finally passed a green sign that read. “Eden”.

As soon as I read that sign I'd knew I'd gone and fucked up. Eden was eleven miles from Benton. I paused and leaned over the handle bars of my bike and hung my head low. My chest heaved up and down as I felt beads of sweat roll down my blistered face. I guess at that moment in time the most logical thing I could do would be to keep on moving. I was sure I could find a phone or something there and I could use that phone to call my mom and dad, who must have noticed by now that I'd not returned from work.

Maybe they had already called the police or sheriff's office out of Yazoo City. Maybe they had already formed a search party. Or given the ungentlemanly way I'd unloaded on my two cousins back at the fish-house a lynch mop. My money was on the lynch mop.

Eden was a small village that was located in the heart of the rural Yazoo County. The population was around four hundred and was just fifteen miles from the Yazoo County-Holmes County line. According to my father who considered himself to be something of a local historian. The village was incorporated on February 24, 1890 when the Yazoo-Delta Valley Railroad was extended from Benton to Eden to act as a shipping point for cotton grown in the surrounding farms. A Cotton Gin was built and opened a few months after the railroad came to town.

This led to a major population boom in the area as people flocked to railroad workers. A small general store was opened, followed by a post office in 1891.. followed by the opening of a hardware store and several other stores. And finally the last development was in 1930 when the Delta Telephone Company connected the modest town hall and general store with Benton and then Yazoo City.

The town was also famous or should I say infamous for one thing, and this scared the ever loving fuck out me. In 1888, two years before the collection of already existing small shops, houses and churches got together and chartered the village. An African-American man by the name of Frank Guise was shot and killed by a white man on the wooden steps of his sharecropper shack for the crime of allegedly insulting a white person.

I mean wow, I wondered what they would do to me if one of the local good-ole boys ever found out that I'd been researching transgenderism. A few nights ago I stayed up past my bedtime to watch a documentary on Channel 6 out of Jackson that was the local PBS channel. The documentary focused on the killing of Emmett Till.

And while Eden, Mississippi might not be Money, Mississippi it was too close to call. And while it might be 2004 in places in Benton, Jackson, Ridgeland, Canton, Clinton, Yazoo City, Greenwood, Greenville, Vicksburg, Pearl, and all along the coast and in other big cities. In places like Eden the march of time had stopped in 1955.

Yes in places like Eden, Money, Midnight, Sharbrough's Landing, Liverpool, Midway, and countless other smaller settlements where the population was barely above five hundred the steady march of time had been frozen in 1955. Here the mighty and feared shadow of the Ku Klux Klan still held power. Sure their power and influence was retreating in the face of  the steady march of progression. But there were still enough of them around and they still held enough influence to control the local politics of these backwater villages and hamlets. 

And sure enough they could make my life a living hell. Even though I was white and a protestant. Oh how twisted it was that the same men who as young teenagers had gone off to the fight the armies of Imperial Japan and free the world from the terror of Nazi Germany, who had seen the horrors of war and the inhumanity of the  holocaust had returned to the united states as conquering hero's only to in a few short months put on the white, hooded sheets of the Ku Klux Klan and take up the battle-cry of “White Power”. And repeat the same cycle of oppression and terrorism that many of their childhood friends had given their lives to stop. 

All of these thoughts swirled around me as I hung my head down and leaned on the handle-bars for support. I forced myself to take a deep breath. Anyway you look at it, I was screwed. I did not have the energy to bike the eleven miles back to Benton. And like I'd said before, I'm sure at this point mom and dad had either formed a search party, called out the hounds, or given the way I'd unloaded at the fish-house a lynching party. Either way it seemed I had only one logical choice ahead of me, keep biking toward Eden proper and then hope to find a telephone or something. I mean what did I have to lose besides maybe my life? And was my life even worth keeping at this point?

The first rays of the morning sun had just appeared over the horizon when I first spotted the faint hints of civilization. The first true sign that I was entering Eden proper was a handsome brick church . The sign in front of the church proclaimed the church to be “Zion Holy Spring MB Church.” Under it a smaller sign told me that services were only held every “First, Second, and Fifth” Sunday.

Then I passed a dozen or so wooden farmhouses, many of the old, weather beaten farmhouses had an old oak tree out in the front yard and hanging from the thick branches of the oak were cords of braided, brown rope at the end of the rope an old tire had been tied. The classic tire swing. Old Fords sat out in front of these houses.

The houses became closer together the further I traveled. At last I came to a cross-road. Here at the intersection of two old country roads I found what I was looking for: the heart of Eden. On one side of the road there was an old BP Gas Station that looked like it was about to fall in. The gas pumps looked rusted and the old concrete parking lot was filled with trash. A stray, orange and yellow tom-cat paced slowly across the parking lot, I could see it was holding a dead rat in its mouth. It looked feral and pissed off. Like it had no problem rendering flesh from bone if you dared try to reach down and pet it or if you dared tried to take the dead mouse from its mouth. 

Beside the BP gas station there was an old laundromat, inside the lights flickered on and off. And the smell of soap filled the air. An old black man dressed in rags was sitting out in front. He was holding a brown bag in one hand and from time to time he would take a swing from whatever the brown bag was holding and then he'd holler out across the lot.

Beside the laundromat there was an old, auto repair shop that looked like it had seen better days. Four or five old ford trucks were parked out front and the light inside the shop flickered on and off and the strong smell of burned oil filled the air around it. A few old men with a few tuffs of white hair tinkered around the trucks. I could hear many of them muttering under their breath. None seemed to pay the old blackman any mind.

Across from the old BP station there was an old, brick building that looked like it had seen better days. The white letters attached to the front wall spelled out the words “Eden, Ms.” followed by “Post Office.” In front was a old, rusting flagpole that showed a tattered American fag above and a even more tattered state flag flying under it. It was clear nobody paid the flag code any mind.

Beside the post office one would find another building, the building looked old and tired, a fading sign above the front door read “Super-Value Charity Shop”. I could already smell the month balls. Beside that was a converted house a simple wooden sign in front the house read. “Ms. Cotton Beauty Salon” And as if to highlight the racial tensions of this small southern town somebody had taken time to write “White Women Only”.

Across the way one would find an old storage unit, a collection of sheds. Another small building that looked like a shed. A sign next to the shed read. “Eden's House of VHS rentals!” Beside that one would find a square brick building, the sign next to that read “Ms. Bee's Steak House” below that somebody had written. “Best Steaks in the Delta” and below that “White People Only”. Across from Ms. Bee’s Steakhouse one could spot a carwash. Wild cattails seemed to grow around the thing and the area around it looked and smelled like a man-made swamp.  Beside the carwash there was another gas station. The pumps in front of it looked slightly newer than the ones found in the old BP. A faded blue sign out front proclaimed it to be “Bradshaw’s Gas, Fried Chicken and BBQ.” 

Now, I hope people see I was not joking when I said that the flow of time had stopped here in 1955. Sure there was more here than I thought it should ever be considering the population was around four hundred souls. I felt a shadow pass over me, that I was going to die here in this God forsaken hell-hole.

Finally I found what I was looking for, just as I was about to leave the heart of Eden I came to the last faint remains of civilization. A few hundred yards from the cross-road section one would find a simple, wooden United Methodist Church with a simple wooden cross out in front. Across from it one would find a simple looking house but the sign out in front said. “Eden Cafe”. And judging from the amount of cars in the old gravel parking lot it was open for business.

End of Chapter Nine

Where the Sunflowers Grow
By
Rebecca Anna Coleman

-10-
The First Phone Call Home

I decided not to venture into the “Eden Cafe” from the outside looking in. I could see two dozen white men in greasy overalls gathering around a few broken down tables. No doubt they were holding a fellowship breakfast for the local branch of the Ku Klux Klan. And by no means did I want to be the guest speaker or be invited to semi-weekly cross burning. I'll take my chances somewhere else.

And so I circled back to the gas station and there out front, by the front door I found what I was looking for: an old Bell South pay-phone. It looked sad and lonely looking,  and I think somebody had taken a bowl movement beside it because there was this massive, brown pile of something that looked like melted chocolate sitting right beside it. God damn I had died and gone to hell.

Taking a deep breath and trying to breath through my nose I inched toward the booth. It was then I noticed what terrible shape the parking lot was in. Pot-holes the size of small fishing ponds dotted the dirty concrete parking lot. Many of these pot-holes were filled with brownish looking water that had the tail-tale shine of grease and chemical run off in them.

To my horror I saw some half-crazed looking man hunching down, he was holding what appeared to be an old tin can in his hand. His face was redder than a tomato and his teeth were rotten, he was missing a good dozen of them and that remained were yellow and rotten. He looked dead at me, then he dipped the tin can into the water and to my horror he took a sip of it. After he finished drinking his fill, he turned his head toward me and then I almost vomited. He looked like an extra from the one horror movie called “Deliverance”. Like I expected him to rush toward me and in a thick, backwooded accent say. “You gotta, pretty little  mouth on you. I’m going to make you put that pretty mouth of yours to work boy. And you're gonna swallow every pearl I give you too like a good little boy.” 

It was at that moment the old glass to gas the station flew open and a woman stepped into the doorway. She was wearing old, greasy looking daisy duke shorts and a shirt that had long turned yellow. A half burned out cigarette was clinched in her mouth and in her hands she held a shot gun.

“I told you, you damn retarded son of a bitch to get gone!” She hollered and she still held the cigarette in her mouth as she hollered this out. “And you carry your ass before I send you home now! And stop drinking that water! That shit will kill you.”

The man who had this pointed stooped down to get another drink of this foul, gut-wrenching smelling water, looked up, dropped his tin can and ran off on all fours. He vanished behind an old metal dumpster, the woman took another drag off her cigarette and then flicked it into the water. I heard her mutter darkly under her breath.

“Dump, retarded son of a bitch I wish May-Lee had held him under the water for a few more minutes when she was bathing him yesterday. Lord knows she could have collected the insurance money from him and gotten herself a better house.” She then stepped inside.

“...” I crossed myself. Then I stopped. It was a Catholic habit. And I'm sure anything that even faintly smelled of the Church of Rome would stir these folks up. They would be like sharks who smelled fresh blood in the water. At that moment I recalled some advice my uncle had once given me, well I won’t go as far as to call it advice, I would call it a warning. “Remember. The Klan hates three things above all else. Niggers, Zionist, and Catholics.” Shaking and scared I walked gently over to the old pay-one and slipped in a few quarter dollars I had jingling around in my pocket. I then dialed the only number I could think of off the top of my head. I dialed the house. And after a few tense moments I heard somebody pick up on the other end of the line. 

“Hello?” It was dad.

“Hey Dad.” I said, taking a deep breath.

“James? Where are you son? Your mom and I are worried sick!” He said.

“I'm in a little village called  Eden dad. I got turned around last night.. Listen, is there any way you come and get me?” I paused and then I felt my heart sink.

“No.. listen son, you kind showed your ass last night. And well, your uncle, my brother out for blood. As soon as you left, Sarah Elizabeth, your cousin called her dad and told him what happened. Now, son I need you to be honest with me, did you shove or slap either Sarah Elizabeth or Mary Grace?” Dad's voice was calm but I could tell he was forcing himself to remain calm.

“What.. no.. Dad, you know me better than that! Listen I just showed my ass a little and now that I've had a chance to cool off. I want to apologize..” I said my voice started to trail a little.

“Son..” Dad swallowed hard. “You can't come home, Sarah Elizabeth told her father that you slapped her right across the fast and then you punched Mary Grace so hard she vomited. I know you'll never put a hand on a woman, I raised you better than that. But well it is her word against yours and the way you ran off last night. Things are not looking good.”

“.. Dad..”

“Son listen to me, Your uncle has the whole damn police force out looking for you. All fourteen of them.. He even has the Police Department of Yazoo city looking for you. And the whole bloody sheriff office. Listen, your best bet is to get out of Yazoo County..” I could tell by the way dad's voice sound he was very tired and very stressed. 

“Dad..”

“Son, just once in your life listen to me, Your uncle is a well connected Master Mason.. through the lodge he has connections that I can't even phantom. And he's pissed at you. He wants you to suffer. Those old men, those old Masons control everything in town. From the Vestry Board of Saint Mary's Episcopal Church right down to the board of directors of Bank of Yazoo. The Sheriff of Yazoo County is one, the police chief of Yazoo is one, heck even the police chief of Benton is one.” His voice was rising.

“...”

“And right now they're all looking for you talking about dishing out some 'Country Justice' or 'Backwood Justice'. Son it looks bad.. Listen, I'm going to make some phone calls. See if you can't go live with your moms brother down in Blue Bayou or something..”

“...”

“I love you son.. but right now I can't help you..”
“..” I felt tears starting to sting my eyes.

“Your best bet is to get to Lexington and from there catch the Delta Coach Bus Line to Greenwood. From there you can ride the train to Blue Bayou.. Listen, the only way I can support you now is to wire some money into your account.. Like I said the Masons control the board of directors, they can fire me with a click of their fingers. I'll do my best, but son, once you get a chance you should take out every penny you have in your checking account and your savings account before they force me to close it.”

“Dad, what would happen if I decided to come home?” I said, taking a deep breath.

“Then, I'm afraid I would have no choice but to make good on the promise I told your uncle. In order to keep peace in the family, I promised if you came home, I'll unenroll you from Benton Academy and send you away to Chamberlain-Hunt Academy.” Dad's voice broke.

Chamberlain-Hunt Academy was a reform, military school for boys that was located near Port Gibson, Mississippi. Being sent to Chamberlain-Hunt was either considered the highest honor or the worst possible punishment depending on one's take of the world. If one desired martial glory, and envisioned themselves leading men in combat. Then Chamberlain-Hunt provided the first step up the ladder that would hopefully in their near future lead to an appointment to West Point.

But for the rest of us it was a death sentence.

“Okay..” I paused.

“Another thing I'd like to cover, son.. I found a notebook in your room.” Dad paused. “It seems you've been doing research into transgender stuff.. Listen I don't know what you're dealing with, I can't start to phantom what you're dealing with. But I know Benton does not have the resources to help you.. Blue Bayou is just thirty minutes out of New Orleans.. I think New Orleans would suit you better.”

“Gotta.”

And that was the last word I managed to get in before my time ran up.

“I guess it's time to let the little song bird sing.” I said, taking a deep breath.

End of Chapter Ten.

Note to the readers. This concludes the first volume of a three part series I plan on writing. Our next story will follow James as he goes on the run. The second volume will have far more development than the first. Thank you all who let comments, kudos or just took time out of your busy day to message me. I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did.