New Dawn
Genre: Supernatural, Romance, Mystery
Tags: Love, Artist, Detective, Sixth Sense, New Orleans, Artist, Police Work
Aspiring artist, Wila Jones, known for her heartfelt abstract portraits, is faced by tragedy when her older brother disappears mysteriously. With New Orleans lively nights, it’s assumed her brother wandered off to explore the world in the fashion of a gypsy. His family knows the grizzly truth; he’d never leave his family or his pregnant girlfriend. Six months pass with no word on his whereabouts. As the months pass, the trail grows cold, forgotten by the police and their ever growing workload; she’s left to pray for a miracle.
Ivan Petrov, was blessed and cursed by a sixth sense, as he’s traveled he’s been faced with the faces of the missing, their whispers of their horrid tales of the last moment of their lives. With his knack for finding the missing, to find the ones who’ve disappeared to the naked eye. He’s faced with the cries of a heart broken girl’s heart; he knows it’s time to come off of his vacation.
Excerpt:
“Wila!” My mother shouts up the stairs of our small New Orleans apartment, I sigh at how it echoes, pushing the hair from my face. I feel the cold and thick paint on my hands smear over my cheek.
“Yeah?” I call back, unable to tear my eyes away from the portrait I have under construction. I’m so close to it being done. Her eyes cry as she stares back, mouth parted in a cry to the void that she’s surrounded by. Curled lashes wet with fresh tears it portrays the anguish of both of us. It’s like looking in a mirror as of late. Every time I sit to paint I feel my own pain lashed out across the paint, woven into each portrait.
The floorboards to my room creak as the door swings open to expose my mother’s fixed features, a stern lecture on her beautiful features. Wrinkles form around her pinched lips and I know I’m due for a stern lecture, if her annoyed glare is anything to go by. The familiar sound of a wooden spoon smacking against her skin makes me wince as I try for a sheepish smile.
“Wila, how many times do I have to remind you that you need to go out with that man of yours,” she scolds me with a chastising tone. I turn away, back to meet the haunting gaze of the portrait, all in an attempt to avoid directing my annoyed gaze at her. I’d rather not end up with a wallop the size of an egg on my hand.
“Mama- I don’t really like Jerome, not as much as he fancies me. He talks too much about himself,” I try to argue. I’m pretty sure he’s been slinking around anyhow. She sighs, no doubt tired of listening to my excuses about him. Jerome Harvard has been a long standing family friend, our mothers grew up together. It’s always been their dream to have their children marry.
“You haven’t given him a chance- he called you know?” The portrait speaks to me, making me pick up my brush adding more to the painting, adding color to her rich tone, a warmth and depth is missing. She needs to be more alive, the pain, the flush- it’s missing.
“No, I had no idea he called. Did he say what he wanted?” I step back staring into the eyes of the portrait, tilting my head I wait to be spoken to. What does she like? Flowers? Gems? Or does she have a rougher personality and a brazen stance in life?
“Yes, he said that he wanted to take you out, if you took your head out of your paintings, you’d already know,” she chastises me, making me turn to face her, praying my expressive face doesn’t speak for me. It happens all too often when I’m distracted.
“Sorry? I really want to finish this up- she deserves to be seen. I want to get this sent out to her family,” speak honestly, waving back to the portrait as if for proof. I find it so hard to connect with each person, saying their name allowed makes me feel as their’s a finality in their passing. Or just finality with their case.
“That’s not an excuse to ignore your boyfriend. You can’t keep putting all of your time into these paintings. You’re only young for so long- now tomorrow, you have a date the your strapping boyfriend,” she holds up her hands as I start to shake my head. “I don’t want to hear it young lady- you are going out and that’s final. Dinner will be done in an hour and you better be dressed and not covered in paint,” she gives a pointed stare at me making me raise my hands in defeat.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I called out to her retreating form. It already smells heavenly. The aroma of her famous gumbo fills the house, the spice and soul always cooked into it makes my mouth water. It’s the best I’ve ever tasted and likely ever will taste. Even if I am slightly biased. Louisiana soul food fills my belly every day because of her, it’s not shocking that her restaurant is always packed, busiest in town.
I waitress there, never surprised with the high praise that’s always given to her as the chef. She was even featured on TV once. Cleaning my brush I remove my smock and walk to the open window, the curtains billow inside in the humid and fragrant breeze. I stare down into the active streets of the French Quarter. We’ve lived in this complex ever since my Mama was a baby.
The paved streets bustle with the men and women of this quarter, window shopping and enjoying the food offered. Teens laugh, shoving one another in their carefree teasing of one another. I miss that careless freedom- the joy of not knowing the truth of this world. My heart pangs for my brother, James, who has been missing for months now. No one knows what happened, no matter how many times Mama and I have gone to the police; there never seems to be a break in the case.
One day he just vanished, no one has seen or heard from him, not even his pregnant girlfriend Amari. Swallowing down the rising pain in my chest I turned to stare at the portrait of him I had painted a month before he disappeared. I admire his strong features, sharp jaw, round nose, vibrant green eyes. The slight smirk on his face as laughter dances in the depths of his eyes with a secret. I wonder if he knows Amari is pregnant with his baby?
A tear rolls down my face the longer I stare at him; he’s always been a hard subject to paint. Aggravated with how many pictures I like to take, the angles, change in lighting. That day he was staring at his phone talking with Amari. Never could I have imagined that that would be one of the last times to ever see that look, his cocky-full-of-himself smirk he wore like armor.
I need another cry in the shower. I grab a change of shorts and a tank top before heading to the shower, drawing out the process as long as I can. After drying off and dressing I’m stuck staring at my reflection, brown eyes and black hair, bi-racial between my white father and mother. I miss daddy. I’ve always looked more like him, even though I have my mother’s hair and eyes, I have my dad’s features.
Round cheeks, button nose and dimpled chin, small ears; he wasn’t a very big man, never had been. James and I are technically only half-siblings, sharing a mother. Even so, daddy loved him just the same, stepping up in his role as a father for him. Dad died when I was a teenager, after a long and arduous battle with cancer.
Now James has been taken from us. It’s broken our family after an already rocky slate from Dad’s passing. James would never abandoned us, it wasn’t like him. He may be a bit of a player and enjoy the sights of ladies- but I know traveling? Has never been an interest, here, he has all the sights he could want to see. Even if he struggles with his fidelity to Amari. James would never leave us for this long.
