letting angels fall.

I [a pocket of dragons]

After hauling in the ton weighing telly, she had successfully bumped around into the house with a slam to the front door.

"Home...sweet home." She huffed.

She'd gotten the silly thing to work, after a few thirty minutes passing.

"Well...this thing better attract guests."

The clock had struck 4:30, so she found it necessary to begin making some sandwiches. Hopefully, some for anyone else who would like to lie their head down on one of the freshly pressed silk pillows in one of the rooms upstairs.

"My back hurts." She whined, slumping on the love seat. Mother hated whining. She was almost sure her ghost would come flying down those marble stairs any minute now to slap her a good one.

"Have you ever had a bad day?" The television asked.

"No," Canela replied with sarcasm.

It was almost strange to speak her mind in the confidence of the house without a response. Eery even.

"Well, if ya have, sit down and relax. Brunette cigarette might do the trick. Look at me! I'm Regina Combs and even I need a break sometimes."

Regina Combs. She thought, "How pretentious is it to refer to yourself in a cigarette commercial. You're Regina Combs and you need a break, what between your hussie shows? Why, sure you do."

"Try it! It's great."

"Try it! It's great." She mocked, scoffing down her finger sandwich.

She decided to look out the window, hoping guests would arrive just by her doing that alone. She was hopeful. Almost a child.

But there were none. Just the swaying of the newly printed Bed & Breakfast sign and the body shop man working tirelessly on a Firebird 47.

As much as Cabasas was changing, no one came around these parts.

Aside from that, she was sure the house had always really been a bad omen. Everyone knew not to mess with it. Because no one liked mother.

If only she could get a reaction from this house. Whether it was good or bad didn't mean much to her as long as it made someone knock on that door asking for a place to stay a few nights.

"What do you want, America?" She spoke aloud. "A cigarette?"

And then it hit her. Cigarettes. America loved a cigarette. Why? The advertisement. It wasn't the Brunette's that caught people's attention and neither was it Regina Combs. It was the camera. It was the idea of putting both the pretentious hussie and the white stick of smoke on a screen for all to see.

Advertisement.

Somehow the Bed & Breakfast sign just wasn't enough.

At that moment, she knew she needed to get her hands on some cigarettes.

There was a gas station not too far from the house. She was sure they would have some cigarettes up their sleeve.

So she walked, tip toe-ing politely in her Mary Jane styled heels, when she noticed a familiar face going in the opposite direction. Not that it was familiar at all but it was a face; a black face.

"Hmph," The black face greeted, handing Canela a piece of paper reading "Boycott this town."

Surely Canela would never do that. She grew up here. Though it may have only been in the four corners of the big white house, that could never make Canela boycott her beginnings.

"For what reason?" Canela could only ponder. But God knows she would never ask such a question. It was impolite. Besides, she didn't want to anger the other black girl who had given her the paper. Around these parts, even black people didn't like seeing other black people in clothes they could never pronounce.