#confred

But times were different now, and the minds of most did not float to the long dead who had suffered and rotted and bloated into grotesque monsters on the battlefield.  The sight of stiffened, dead hands reaching out from moist soil to the light of day, zombies perhaps--or rather only improperly buried carcasses--no longer tormented the minds of living women and children.

It was now a hundred and fifty years since that day at Appomattox, and no one lived to remember it but his mirror image and himself.  No, not in living color, did the young recall, but of days long past in monochrome on tin and glass sheets, something to be studied in school.  Something unreal, unthinkable.  Those that cried of hardship now did not know the hardship that they had endured.

It was in moments such as today, when he had stood inside a restaurant and viewed young women texting and laughing with their short hair and even shorter skirts, that Confred felt infinitely old.  But he was not, no, not in comparison to many of the others, and yet he could not help the feeling.

A hundred and forty-eight years since Appomattox, but not all had forgotten.  The world was modern, and he was forced to adapt.  They did not cry for slavery now, but rather for religious freedoms, and life, and this and that.  He would take their causes only because they were what allowed him to live.  New debates divided the nation, and he had to cling and tear at them to force remembrance.

It does not have to be this way.  You do not have to live under these northern tyrants!

He was laughed at, of course.  Himself, the thought, himself, the person, they had always been laughed at.  Once he had been feared, and it was only a matter of time before the laughs ceased and their brows knit in realization of his reality.  Division was where he lived, and unity in it, where he thrived.

Perhaps he could be considered the devil, in the Yankee's mind.  There he was, the thought, the terrible thought, the creeping thought that lead his people to wonder.

He despised coming in places such as this; the bright lighting, the loud noises, the smells, the atrocious behaviors and clothing of others.  He stood out like a sore thumb, the white suit, polished shoes, and gentleman's watch.  Children and adults alike whispered to themselves; he was not sure if he delighted at their assumptions that he was a wealthy man--but why would one of his fine breed be here?

It interested him to on occasion venture here, to see the plastic, the food that was not real food, and the technology that the Yankee seemed to push these days.  There seemed something wrong with these "e-readers," ridding society the need of bookcases and physical libraries.  The home was rapidly changing, aesthetic beauty replaced with glaring gadgets of all sorts, a flat screen television in place of where an imported china cabinet once stood, with its intricate carvings.

These fake foods--microwavable dinners--took away from society as well.  No longer was dinner a nightly ritual in which the family came together for a certain period of time at a sprawling table with fine china and cutlery, the shining glasses.  No, rather, everyone separated, went to play with their ridiculous electronic toys as they shoved this "Easy Mac" in their mouths.

Children ran screaming about past him, taking no mind to how their hands had slapped his legs.  Their mother stood in front of a gaudy Halloween display, gum in mouth as she spoke loudly on her cellular phone, rants of her "baby daddy" not deaf on anyone's ears.  It disgusted him, all of it.  The children, their lack of discipline.  Their mother, rudely screaming about their father, a man who had not taken his properly responsibility, and she, no lady that had served her purpose.  Their mother, in her short shorts, her ripped shirt that exposed a belly that was not the thinnest, the shoes that were falling apart, her dirty hair.

He turned away from it and continued his walk through the sprawling building.

Teenage boys muttered to themselves about a young woman, the filth that spewed from their mouths scandalous.   A hundred and sixty years ago, they would have already been men, young gentleman who had families and perhaps plantations to support.  The way they spoke of the woman's bosom and buttocks would not have been allowed, either their mother or their mammy offering them a good slapping.  It was no wonder boys grew to be such not-men in this modern time.

He heard some other adolescents speaking, doing a poor imitation of the accent that was commonly present in this region.  "Yer," "aye," "rut," "thang."  The way they spoke was warped, horrific, sounding more as though a speaking problem than a proper accent in his ears.  He did not speak like that; even the lowest of the low in this area did not.  His own accent was soft, his tongue wrapping around certain vowels slightly differently than the Yankee's did.  A fine accent, classy, unlike those difficult-to-understand northeastern ones.  The boys continued to laugh, continued their mockery.  Northerners did not belong here, even now.

(( THIS COUNTS AS LEGIT CONFRED ART OKAY