The Raconteurs' Muse Literary Journal Vol.I Read online

  Chapter Two

  Hitler Loves Aunt Jemima

  by

  Steven Jackson

  Fuck you nigga, with your Sickle Cell disease. Fuck you nigga, with your sista on her knees. Fuck you nigga, suckin’ dick for crack, while your momma gettin’ nickels makin’ a livin’ on her back. P

  Father sits at the head of the elongated dining room table for our Sunday family dinner. The room is adorned with various religious pictures, artifacts and statues. A wall sized mural of the Last Supper is positioned behind Father like a billboard advertisement for Jesus.

  Mother sits at the opposite end of the dinner table from Father, and my youngest sister Danielle sits on Mother’s right side. My sister Lynsay who is two years older than me sits to Mother’s left. Lynsay moved out of the house immediately after high school graduation. I remember her packing her car while still wearing her cap and gown. She moved to Eugene, enrolled at University of Oregon, changed her last name to Obama, and stayed away from the family without a word for four years.

  Our customary Sunday meal consists of Father’s favorite food: barbecued ribs, which Father used to prepare himself starting just after sunrise. He parboils the ribs before patiently grilling them on low heat for hours, and slathers the slabs with his secret homemade barbecue sauce until the mouthwatering meat melts off the bone. Now his presidential campaign consumes every waking moment of Father’s day, so he hired some Negro named JJ from Meridian, Mississippi to do the grilling.

  Mother still prepares the side dishes from scratch: collard greens, black eyed peas, butter milk corn bread, traditional and vegetarian Macaroni and Cheese with the crumbly crust, cole slaw, yams, sweet potato pie for dessert, and headache sweet original red Kool-Aid. We argue at every Sunday dinner whether red is the color of the Kool-Aid or the flavor.

  “Do you realize that until I attended college I never had a conversation with a Black person?” Lynsay tells Father, between bites of vegetarian mac and cheese, “That’s eighteen years of my life; isolated and deprived of an important segment and voice of our society.” Lynsay sets her fork down and picks at the corn bread with her fingers. Lynsay always eats like an anorexic when she is upset, and continues with Father, “You and Mother sequestered us from Black people in some bizarre form of parental apartheid. I’m surprised I was allowed to wear black clothes.”

  Mother dulcetly chimes in, “Sweetheart, we only wanted what was best for all of you,” and primly slices her rib meat off the bone with a knife and fork, “You were raised safe, loved, and aware of your position in the world. That’s all any parent could dream for their children, isn’t it?” Mother glances around the table sincerely looking to her children for affirmation of her parenting decisions.

  “It was an illusory existence,” Lynsay says. She breaks a corner off her corn bread, and dips it in the collard green liquor pooled on her plate. “Contrary to popular belief, there are Black people in the world, our country.”

  “That’s part of the problem.” I tell Lynsay.

  Danielle strains to follow the conversation, but can’t read our lips fast enough.

  “If you look closely,” Lynsay says, “you might find several living here in Terrebonne.”

  “Outside of the occasional handy man, or domestic, there’s not a dark face within miles of our neighborhood,” I tell Lynsay.

  Father tosses a naked rib bone back into his plate like clinking spare change in a beggar’s cup. We all anticipate Father making some profound comment, but he merely stifles a belch, licks the spicy barbecue sauce off his manicured fingers and gulps his tumbler of iced red Kool-Aid.

  “I feel as if I was an animal raised in the circus,” Lynsay continues. “Thank God I escaped after eighteen years of captivity.”

  Father wrinkles his brow in thought, struggling to assess Lynsay’s statements, and says, “Growing up in an all white community felt like captivity too you?” Father stifles another belch, and calmly removes a toothpick from the Black Sambo toothpick holder at the center of the table. He nonchalantly picks the pork remnants out of his impeccably veneered white teeth.

  I also remove a toothpick and dig at the rib meat lodged between my teeth. The toothpick holder matches the Aunt Jemima Salt Shaker, and Uncle Moses Pepper Shaker sitting side by side on the dining room table like our personal minstrel show.

  “I was unprepared for the undomesticated world,” Lynsay says, “because all I knew were the tricks my trainers taught me.” She scrutinizes the ancient Sambo toothpick holder, with its coal black skin, exaggerated features, red jacket, and blue trousers, and continues, “I knew nothing of life’s nuances, or more importantly, understanding and embracing people different than me.”

  Lynsay sets the toothpick holder next to the similarly blackface, plump lipped and bug-eyed Gollywog napkin holder Grandma Pierce gave Mother and Father as an anniversary present last year. Lynsay picks up the salt and pepper shakers, examines them, and sets the figurines down in disgust as far away from her as possible, and feverishly wipes her hands with a napkin as if they are contaminated.

  Father plucks several ribs from the warming platter and makes quick work of them. He wags a meatless bone in his hand back and forth, and preaches, “The undeniable truth is there are proportionately fewer intelligent Negroes than Whites in the United States, and in my opinion this indisputable fact also confirms comparable Negro inferiority. These conclusions are inescapable, as are the social consequences.”

  Mother cuts a beseeching glance at Lynsay, pleading with her to let this go. Lynsay predictably ignores Mother.

  Danielle signs to mother asking what is going on, but is ignored.

  “This is an important point,” Father gently taps his water glass with a butter knife requesting our full attention, “so please pay listen.” He sets his knife down and rests his manicured right hand on the Bible next to his plate. Satisfied all eyes are on him, Father continues, “As I said, if Negroes are collectively inferior to Whites, the possibility of a truly integrated and equal society is not realistic, no matter whom the President is, or what he looks like.”

  “Strictly for my edification,” Lynsay begins, as she fondles the collard greens on her plate as if a kindergartener finger painting. She ignores Mother’s pleas, licks the collard juice from her fingers, and lets loose on Father, “Allow me get this straight, no matter what, Black people will continue to...”

  “All of you stop and listen.” Father interrupts Lynsay, immune to her livid slings and arrows. He leans into the table and points at Lynsay with his rib bone, “This is for the enlightenment of each one of you.” Father snatches his Bible off the table in one hand, and waves his rib bone like a magic wand in the other hand, casting a spell over the family, and barks, “Negroes, coloreds, or whatever they want to be called this week as a group possesses a lower I.Q. than almost every other racial group across the board.”

  Lynsay attempts to interject, but Father talks over her, “Scientists proved decades ago that a low I.Q. directly correlates with higher rates of crime, welfare, poverty, and illegitimate births.” Father tosses the rib bone on his plate, takes another from the warming platter, and sucks the meat off while talking, “Pragmatic lucidity dictates that Negroes will never overcome these pathologies, so consequently, we must rid our society of this malignancy, or risk additional infectivity. As the dominant race, we can no longer allow this cultural effluence to endure. We must exercise our position of superiority.”

  Mother raps on her water glass with her butter knife before pointing the utensil at Father, and demanding, “Drop the bone, and this dinnertime bully pulpit.”

  Father tosses the bone to his plate like a criminal instructed by the police to drop his weapon. I gotta go talk to Jen. This is a good time to make a break from the table, maybe fake a need to pee and sneak out of the kitchen service door.

  Mother glares down the table at Father, “Dinner is not the place for a convention speech.”

  As usual Father ignores Mother,
and continues to address us, “In 1729 Jonathan Swift suggested in his essay, A Modest Proposal, that the poor children of Ireland be sold as...”

  Mother shrieks, “I said enough already!” She frantically bangs on her water glass with the butter knife until it shatters. Water and pieces of glass spew across the table. Lynsay grabs napkins to mop up the water, and I carefully pick the glass shards off the table, while Mother howls at Father, “I mean it.”

  Much to Mother’s consternation, Father ignores her and continues on, louder and stronger, “A young, healthy, well-nourished child is at one year old, a moist, delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked or boiled.”

  Mother throws her hands in the air, and gives it all to God, “Jesus take the wheel, I give up. What am I supposed to do to make my husband understand?” She shakes her head in frustration, “Lord give me patience, for better or worse.”

  Lynsay plucks the final pieces of glass shards from the table and places them on her plate of tepid food. Father strolls over and stands next to Lynsay, imposing as he towers over her at six foot six, “This is not a joke, but a malignancy that ails our country,” Father says. He waves his Bible at all of us cowering around the table, and says in his commanding voice, “Jonathan Swift had vision, he was a revolutionary for his time, and he was an intellectual, a fantasist, and simultaneously a realist. We need this kind of pragmatic wisdom and leadership in these apocalyptic days of Obama.”

  I stand and applaud, “Tell it Father, tell it!” Mother catches me by the tail of my shirt and yanks me back to my chair.

  “Sit down fool,” Mother snaps.

  Danielle waves at Mother to get her attention.

  With my dopehead attention span of a hamster, I forgot about Jen.

  Father continues, “Adolf Hit...” Lynsay’s bowed head pops up from the table like a jack-in-the-box.

  Lynsay hastily interrupts Father, “Were you about to say Adolf Hitler?” She shrieks, “Father please, I have sat here listening to you with a modicum of respect for the last two hours.

  “Thank you.” Father places his arm around Lynsay, interrupting her, and coolly says, “Wait, listen to me for...”

  “I held my tongue, and allowed your nescience to pass uncontested as fact. Lynsay bounces up from her seat, “However, not this one,” She wags her finger in Father’s face,” I know you are not about to praise Adolf Hitler.”

  “Please lis...” Father attempts to regain control of the discussion; however, Lynsay is having none of it.

  Lynsay waves Father away from her as if he smells, “Father, you cannot rationalize Adolf Hitler.” Lynsay interjects, not allowing any room for his hustle and flow to continue another sentence, “I find your attempt to justify Adolf Hitler’s actions and philosophies morally reprehensible.”

  Father breaks out his faux politician’s smile rests his hand on Lynsay’s shoulder and attempts to explain. Lynsay tenses up as if a cramp has over taken her, and shrugs Father’s hand off her. I wonder why Lynsay bothered to come back.

  “Adolf Hitler.” Father’s tone is now pointed, his words more prone to Ginsu than bludgeon. “The world cannot deny Hitler was a realist, with a clear and definitive vision; he was a great leader, who was willing to make tough choices in a difficult time.”

  Lynsay drops into her chair, too tired to fight this battle she thought ended when she walked out four years ago. “Hitler exterminated millions of ...”

  “Allegedly,” Father interrupts. “Allegedly.”

  Lynsay curls up in her chair, and wonders if she should try driving back to Eugene, or get a hotel in town. Either way she is leaving, and only returning to attend Father’s funeral.

  Father kneels down on one knee beside Lynsay, and says, “When you make mention to these Semitic accusations, please preface them with alleged.” Father leaves Lynsay’s side and stalks the dining room, his tremendous bass voice booms off the walls as he shifts into preacher mode, “Hitler’s transgression is not the alleged extermination of a scant number of Jews in the Holocaust fable.”

  Mother takes a deep breath, sits back in her chair, and whispers a prayer.

  Right now, I would do anything to be upstairs smoking a bowl.

  “The fact that this alleged transgression prevents an intelligent discussion of eugenics and the creation of a master race is the real crime against humanity.” Father drives his point through our heads with the subtlety of a lobotomy, “Hitler would illuminate this nation to the harsh and practical realization that the old, weak, poor, and cognitively challenged must be exterminated, and that Negroes and whites cannot coexist.”

  Mother tosses her napkin down on the table, and marches over to Father, “Any more of this talk and I will exterminate you.”

  Danielle gently taps on her glass of Kool-Aid with her butter knife, and signs, “I saw Jen at the mall today, when I went with Brittany, Terra, and Terra’s Mom.”

  Mother reads Danielle’s signing out loud for Father.

  So that’s what the little shit was working with in the kitchen earlier, I knew the schemer was up to some dubious shit. I dish up more greens, and Father pats me on the back on the way to his chair.

  “Jen is a fine young lady.” Father says, easing back into his chair, and dabbing at beads of perspiration on his forehead. “She is the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  I nod in agreement and force the lukewarm fork full of greens in my mouth. I haven’t heard from Jen in twenty-four hours, that’s not a beautiful thing.

  “There is nothing like a woman who will stand by you through thick and...” Father stops to reconsider his conclusion, “Did something happen, Jen is usually here for Sunday dinner?”

  I signal to Father my mouth is full and feebly circumvent the questions about Jen’s absence. I cut a glance at Danielle fidgeting in her chair and grinning from ear to ear, bursting at the seams with toxic information. Danielle knows some dirt, and I’m sure I don’t want to be sitting at this table when she regurgitates it all over me.

  Mother returns to her seat and signs to Danielle, “Did Jen mention anything about coming to dinner tonight?”

  I’m gonna kill the little shit.

  Danielle breaks out in mute shits and giggles, “We saw Jen was with this Negro guy at the mall.” She is barely able to control herself, and signs at the speed of Dizzy Rascal rapping, “He looks like the Negro guy off that stupid Grey’s Anatomy spin-off.

  Mother turns to look at me, and down the table at Father, who doesn’t yet know what is going on.

  Lynsay sits up in her chair, “Negro guy from Grey’s Anatomy?” and reads Danielle’s signing, “Taye Diggs?”

  “Taye what?” Father asks, “Can’t anyone interpret this stuff?”

  “Terra’s mom wouldn’t let us go over and talk to Jen,” Danielle continues signing, her finger moving like she is having a seizure, “Terra’s mom was checking him out, I could tell.”

  Mother explains to Father what Danielle signed.

  Why didn’t I fake needing to pee, and break out while I could? Getting away from this table without experiencing the wrath of Father will be about as difficult as shooting pool with a rope. I drop my eyes and reach for more food to pile on my plate; if I can’t leave the table, I better stay occupied.

  I reach for the warming platter of ribs sitting in front of him, but Father snatches me by the wrist. He jerks me out of my seat and pulls me onto the dinner table toward him. Father glares at me as if I failed another piss test, and snarls, “Phineas, is there something we should be made aware of regarding your girlfriend?”

  Father releases me, and I shrivel up in my seat like a swimmer’s cock in cold water. I fear Father as I fear God himself, and I know there will shortly be hell to pay. My immediate plan is to avoid his glare and transfix on my plate of cold collards, petrified mac and cheese, and a pile of pristine rib bones. I meekly confess to Father, “I have no idea what Danielle is talking about.”

  Danielle should
have come to me with this information. Instead of launching yet another misguided attempt to get Father to overlook her disability, and offer her unconditional love and approval, instead of disdain and pity. Danielle understands Father views her as damaged goods, and she has to work doubly hard to prove herself, more often than not at my expense. Father never took the time to learn sign language, and he has never been affectionate or involved with Danielle since discovering her handicap when she was an infant.

  “Like I said, this is all freshly baked,” and I continue lying to my family as well as myself, “I never had a taste of this news until just now.”

  Payback is a bitch, and I’ll serve up the thirteen-year-old snitch just like Jonathan Swift suggested. I continue explaining to Father, who glares at me with the familiar look of “disown” in his eyes, “Danielle was in the kitchen with me and mom today at three o’clock watching your speech. The little brat never mentioned anything about Jen to me.”

  Father shifts his glare from me to Danielle. As much of a lying, crazy, junkie shit that I am, he will still believe me over the cripple Danielle. So, I game this up for all it is worth.

  “Does Danielle’s action seem peculiar to anyone else sitting at the table besides me?” I look everyone in the eye, and stop at Danielle. I slowly enunciate so she can read my lips while I throw her beneath the big yellow Special Ed bus, “Danielle supposedly sees my girlfriend hanging out with some Negro cat, and she sits on this news all evening?”

  Danielle’s little face trembles and contorts with anger as she reads my lips. She starts making her grunting noises while her fingers and hands pop and lock with purpose. Nevertheless, all eyes are fixed on me and my character assassination of poor retarded Danielle.

  I ask everyone at the table, “Why did Danielle not bother to pull me aside and mention Jen to me?”

  Mother and Father wait for Danielle to answer.

  “However, Danielle chooses to put me on blast at the dinner table in front of the whole damn fam?” I know there is something going on with Jen, but Danielle’s story is bullshit, or is it? Regardless, I step on the gas and continue to drive over Danielle, “To me, this whole story reeks of an agenda, of someone who obviously doesn’t have my best interest at heart.”

  “What you did was grimy,” Lynsay bites on my story, and signs to Danielle, “Why didn’t you tell Phineas about seeing Jen at the mall?”

  Danielle sits with her impaired Forrest Gump expression and shrugs her shoulders.

  Mother taps Danielle on her shoulder to get her attention, and signs, “You are obviously saying this to hurt Phineas. If it is true, why would you keep this from your brother?”

  “I have no idea what Danielle is signing,” Father says, not even bothering to look in my direction. “However, I know Phineas is lying if his lips are moving. Someone better hurry and appease me with something I can believe.”

  “Tell the whole story right now,” Mother signs to Danielle and talks at the same time, “or consider yourself grounded with no allowance for a month.”

  Danielle glares at Mother with a defiant scowl, and signs, “If I’m grounded, why should I tell anyone anything?”

  I bounce out of my chair, and step toward Danielle, ready to regulate on the pint sized prima donna. However, Mother steps between us, and ushers me back to my chair.

  “Because I will kick your ass you little bi...” I sign to Danielle, behind Mother’s back.

  Mother turns around and catches the last part of my threat, and shrieks, “Phineas, don’t speak to your...”

  “Well she is a bitch.” Lynsay cuts Mother off, and shouts at Danielle, “Sandbagging your brother at the dinner table, how grimy is that?”

  Danielle wells up with tears; although, at this point it’s all about the story, and I don’t give a fuck.

  She dabs at her eyes with a dinner napkin, blows her nose, and commences to castrate me by sign, while Mother does the play by play for Father, “They were holding hands, and Jen was kissing all over the Negro guy.”

  “Bullshit.” I snap at Danielle.

  “Shut up.” Father reaches across and cuffs me upside the head with his Bible.

  “Ouch!”

  “They were like on a reality show,” Danielle signs feverishly, and Mother struggles to keep up, “It didn’t seem like Jen cared who saw her. You should have seen Tara’s mother, I thought she was gonna pee her pants.”

  Father listens intently, and says nothing. I slump back in my chair and stare blankly up at the Last Judgment reproduction by Michelangelo, from the Sistine Chapel, painted on our dining room ceiling as opposed to the Hand of God giving life to Adam. I listen to Mother mouth what Danielle is signing, and my mind drifts to drugs. Getting high would create more problems than solutions. Furthermore why compromise a pleasant buzz. I need to get my piece from under my mattress, and go over to Jen’s and regulate on this bullshit.

  I return my attention to my family, and everyone is now staring at me. I realize I am geeking like a fiend, and scratching at my porcelain plate with a plastic fork. Now I understand why Father and Mother didn’t allow me metal forks and knives at dinner after I got out of rehab the third time.

  Father removes the plastic fork from my hand, snaps it in half with one hand, and tosses it to the table.

  Mother slides her chair over to me, “Baby,” She proceeds to massage my neck and shoulders, and naively attempts to tell me soft enough so Father can’t hear, “I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to be involved with a young lady who associates with...”

  “Associating?” Fathers interrupts, grinding his teeth while caressing the cover of his Bible, “That is an interesting choice of words.”

  “I have a superior word,” Lynsay snaps, “how about allegedly?”

  She waited to clap back at Father, and picked her moment with brilliance.

  “Remember that word, just like your mentor Adolf? None of us has any corporeal proof if anything happened between Jen and this anonymous man. Before we pin the scarlet letter on Hester Jen, maybe we give Phineas, as well as Jen, the benefit of the doubt. At the least, we need to recognize some due diligence is in order here.”

  Mother sighs deeply and nods her head in agreement with Lynsay. She stands, kisses me on the top of the head, and begins clearing the dinner dishes.

  Mother kissed me on the head when visiting hours were over at the rehab facility. Father said some abbreviated serenity prayer over me, like a blessing from the Pope, and they quickly left. He stopped the serenity prayers after my third stint in rehab. They stopped coming to visit after my fifth stay. I don’t remember how many times I have been in rehab.

  Lynsay and Danielle promptly excuse themselves from the table to help Mother with the dishes, and flee the ire of Father. Lynsay trails Danielle out of the dining room and slaps her upside the head as they pass from my sight into the sanctuary of the kitchen.

  I sit back down at the dining room table alone with Father and count the corn bread crumbs surrounding my plate. He gazes through me, sayings nothing for what seems like an eternity. Father picks his dinner fork off the table and leans over toward me as if to tell me a secret. I notice a hint of blood on his lower lip, where he apparently bit through the skin. He wields his fork so close to my face, I can smell the mixture of collard greens and hot sauce on the utensil.

  “Phineas.” Father taps me on the chin with the teeth of the fork.

  “Yes sir.” I respond; however, I refuse to look up at Father.

  He places the fork on my chin, raises my head up, and issues his commandment, “I forbid you to associate with any woman who...”

  At that moment, Mother walks into the dining room, breaking Father’s concentration for a moment; however, he effortlessly refocuses, and continues, “Any woman who deems it appropriate to fondle, and tongue some nigg...”

  Mother has our dinner napkins in her hand as she passes behind Father, and shoves the cotton napkins in his mouth, covers Father’s mouth with her hand,
and tells him, “I wish you wouldn’t associate with that word, it is crude and beneath a man of your position.”

  He tears Mother’s hand away from his mouth, and spits the napkins out of his mouth, “What the hell are you doing!” Father stands and throws the saliva soaked napkins across the room. He pounds the table with his leather bound Bible; rattling and spilling anything remaining on the tabletop.

  Mother and Lynsay hurry back into the Dining Room, as Father bellows, “I have worked hard to build an exemplary Christian life for this family.”

  Mother instinctively stands in front of me, shielding me from Father’s rant.

  He points the Bible at me, and shouts, “You will not bring shame and disgrace to this family by associating with some slut with a case of jungle fever, do you understand me Phineas?”

  “Yes sir.” I obediently nod my head.

  “Do you understand Lynsay?” Father points to Lynsay, now standing behind Mother and me.

  “Yes Father.” Lynsay nods.

  Father slowly enunciates to Danielle cowering behind the kitchen door. She quickly nods, as well as signs yes before retreating into the kitchen.

  I take a deep sigh of relief this is over; however, no such luck this black Sunday.

  Father steps between Mother and Lynsay grabs me by the shirt collar, and slams me back in my chair, “Sit down boy, I’m not finished with you.”

  Father resumes stalking the room, running his hands through his thick mane of premature gray hair. He clutches the Bible to his chest, before preaching, “If God had wanted races to mix, he would have created them equal, and the same. However, in his infinite wisdom, our good Lord did not create us equal, or the same. There is a reason one man is born White, and with consummate advantage, while another is born Negro, and with considerable disadvantage. Whites are blessed, we are the chosen ones, on your knees family, and bow you heads, let us give thanks.”

  I drop to my knees along with Mother and the girls while Father places his hand firmly on my bowed head, and prays, “Heavenly Father, we thank you for your bountiful blessings. Please help my children, my entire family, and my race to remember always, we are the chosen people, the children of your holiness. Bless us with the fortitude to achieve our holy, righteous, manifest destiny. You have illuminated the path we must follow, and have called me to lead White people of this great land to our blessed glory. Continue to bless us with wisdom, knowledge, and understanding. That we may recognize the pathologies characteristic to the Negro devil, and refrain from these temptations. The inherent pathologies of the Negro race and all who succumb to their temptations will be eternal damnation in Hell. In your name, we pray heavenly Father, Amen.”

  Everyone repeats, “Amen,” however, we all remain on bended knee, with our heads bowed.

  Father removes his hand from my head, and I hear his John Lobbs tread smoothly across the hardwood floor, and out of the room. Minutes later I cautiously open my eyes, and glance up to see Lynsay putting on her hoodie and throwing her ever-present black Passchal messenger brief over her shoulder. I doubt if she will return for anymore Sunday dinners; however, I bow my head and say a quick prayer asking for her return. Lynsay taps Danielle on the head; she opens her eyes, sees me, and scoots out of the room.

  Mother remains on her knees praying furiously while I whisper to Lynsay, “What do you think she is praying for?”

  “She’s praying for you Junior,” Lynsay looks down at our Mother, and back at me, “without a doubt, she’s praying for you.”

  Lynsay gives me a hug and kisses me on the head as Mother did at rehab, and walks out of the room. I hear the front door open, and softly close, and like Keyser Soze, Lynsay she is gone again. I look down at Mother deep in prayer, notice a tear streaming down her cheek, and know the prayer is for me.

  Prayer makes me uncomfortable, especially, when people feel compelled to mention me in their appeals to their higher power. This infers that something is exceptionally wrong with me; something so extreme it exceeds the scope of a mere mortal, and only God can help. Aside from the fact, I plan to get fucked up, take my gun, and kill Jen, her spook, and anyone who gets in my way; I think I am holding up rather well. I know my purpose, and I have God on my side, Father said so. Can you amen to that?

  Hitler Loves Aunt Jemima is a chapter excerpt from Steven Jackson’s upcoming novel Leaving Omelas, due out in August 2013.