Focusing on casual comfort wear to take you from the day to the evenings, Boutique 206 is a women’s clothing and accessory shop in Guthrie. Owner Laura Long talks about what shoppers can expect to find at her downtown boutique.
Visit Boutique 206 for yourself at 206 East Oklahoma Avenue in Guthrie.
This is the second of my three stories I filmed about Guthrie places. My Guthrie mini-series is being released on Tuesdays in February, but my supporters on Patreon will get early access to the episodes as thanks for helping to make Uncovering Oklahoma possible! Huge thanks to my superstar supporters: Lynn and Steve Keller-Kenton Family and Revolve Productions.
A programmer’s Saturday morning ritual is interrupted by a loud knocking from a soldier in Legionnaire armor with the ancient city of Rome behind him.
Despite being “a grown-ass adult,” Lucas had a Saturday morning ritual of enjoying a bowl of sugary cereal while watching cartoons on a streaming service in his PJs. He lived alone in his one-bedroom Oklahoma City apartment, which freed him from judgmental remarks from roommates – though he was prepared to defend himself. The routine was his special way to unwind after a week of coding at Deep Fork Technology.
Lucas nearly choked on the first bite of his cereal from the sudden, thunderous knock on the front door.
He grumbled under his breath, “Who could this be?” as he paused the show on his TV to answer the call.
Upon opening the door, a man in full Legionnaire armor stood before Lucas with the ancient city of Rome behind the soldier. Lucas stuck his head out the entrance to study the scene. In his mind, this had to be an elaborate prank. Still, he could feel the sunshine and smell the summer breeze, contrasting the snowy weather he knew was happening in Oklahoma City. The outside building of his apartment matched the clay exterior of a Roman house.
“Are you Lucas?” the Legionnaire interrupted.
Lucas turned his attention to the soldier, now noticing the bloody rag around his leg. “Yes, I’m Lucas.”
The soldier let himself inside. “I was told this would be a safe place.”
Lucas closed the door. “Who are you?”
“I am Barbados. You have a strange home here.”
“How are you able to communicate with me?”
“What do you mean? We are speaking Latin.”
“No, we’re speaking English.”
“English? What’s this English?”
“Never mind. Who sent you here?”
Barbados fell into the worn-out, brown thrift-store bought couch. “This man in this strange, pinkish outfit I have never seen. New fashion, I suppose. Pointed me to your door and said you were a healer.”
“I tried to be a doctor, but I switched majors to programming,” Lucas explained.
“I did not understand a word you just said.”
Lucas thought for a moment to best word the situation. “I’m not a healer.”
Barbados nodded in understanding. “I see.”
Although Lucas didn’t have much medical training, he did recognize a dying person and rushed to his side. He kneed by him, stuck in a state of what to do, as Barbados took his last breath. Lucas checked his pulse. There was none.
“Fuck.”
Before he had much time to think about what to do next, there was a knock at the door. Lucas opened the door to a tall, slender man in a pink suit with bold, black outlines and a woman in a red dress from the Roman era. Something about their appearance–perhaps their black hair–made Lucas think they were siblings. The scene behind them was of a rainy night in a futuristic neon city.
The two individuals let themselves inside and headed straight to Barbados.
“Don’t mind us,” the man in the pink suit said. “We’re here to collect Barbados.”
The woman lifted Barbados from the legs while the man grabbed him from the other end.
“Have a nice day,” the woman said as she walked back past Lucas.
The strangers closed the door behind themselves. Lucas waited a few seconds, trying to process what happened, and opened the front door. Outside was his snow-covered apartment building. The cold wind whipped his face, telling him this was real. Lucas closed the door and returned to his cereal as that’s all he could think to do.
In the raining neon city, the man and the woman dropped Barbados on the alleyway pavement. The man opened Barbados’ eyes and pulled out a contact lens. He handed the lens to the woman.
“I’ll get the footage processed right away,” the woman said. “How are you feeling about this episode so far, Loki?”
Loki pulled out a black pen from inside his suit jacket. He shook the device, and the writing utensil transformed into a staff as tall as himself. He poked at Barbados with the bottom end of the staff.
“I’m not sure yet, Raven. I think Barbados died too soon to have any comical moments with Lucas. We’ll try again, but with different people.”
This week’s prompted short story was inspired by the following idea: “You awake one Saturday morning to frantic banging on your front door. Upon opening the door you see in front of you a man in full Legionnaire armor and behind him the ancient city of Rome.”
For my second Tulsa story this year, I visited with chefs Sarah & Jean-Baptiste Saint Amon. They’re a married couple from the U.S. and France that has brought the vision of French baking to Tulsa. With scratch-made baked goods, Saint Amon Baking Co has a motto that everyone should be able to afford good, quality food. With options ranging from things people may have never heard about to treats for children to high-end desserts to enjoy.
Visit them for yourself at 6333 East 120th Ct F in Tulsa or online at SaintAmonBakingCo.com
In historic downtown Guthrie, First Capital Games & Collectibles is a gathering place for people to enjoy and learn about board and card games. Discover games and collectibles not found at big-box retailers.
Visit them for yourself at 116 West Oklahoma Avenue in Guthrie, Oklahoma or online at FirstCapitalGames.com
This is the first of my three stories I filmed about Guthrie places last week. My plan is to release them on Tuesdays in February, but my supporters on Patreon will get early access to the episodes as thanks for helping to make Uncovering Oklahoma possible! Huge thanks to my superstar supporters: Lynn and Steve Keller-Kenton Family and Revolve Productions.
A mysterious clock tower crashes into a sleepy town, only to become a silent sentinel. Reporter Auceon can’t shake the feeling something’s off. When the clock’s glow flickers out one day, his suspicions ignite. What secrets are hidden within the metallic giant? Will Auceon be the first to uncover the truth, or will he become another unsolved mystery?
A monstrous violet tower, shimmering with an unnatural metallic sheen, plummeted into the heart of Whiteridge. Screams echoed through the town square as people scattered, seeking cover from the falling giant. A high-pitched, metallic whine vibrated through the air upon impact. Fear was replaced by bewildered curiosity as the dust settled. There, the new clock tower stood, a silent sentinel twice the height of any building nearby, adorned with digital numbers the size of a delivery drone displaying the current time.
Auceon’s shoulders slumped in relief as he surveyed the scene. Thankfully, the chaos hadn’t resulted in any casualties. All the buildings remained undamaged except for a concrete patch that the town council grudgingly designated as a park. He and his journalistic colleagues searched for clues as to why the structure landed there, but no one found any inscriptions on the outside nor a way inside. A xhosian near the scene told reporters they felt electrical disturbances before the crash, but no one else reported anything unusual leading up to the crash. Early speculations suggested the planet’s guardian dropped the tower; however, when the press inquired, The Black Dragon denied any knowledge.
Months passed, with the clock ticking faithfully yet revealing nothing. Auceon clung to his favorite theory: a social experiment by a hidden cult. He’d once entertained the notion of a maverick artist whose grand statement involved the fleeting of time, but logic scoffed at that idea, as someone would’ve taken credit by now. One of his colleagues believed the tower was a stunt meant to scare off any shady criminal dealings. The town council was also clueless, but the lack of reason didn’t stop them from taking advantage of the landmark. With no answers forthcoming, the tower, once a beacon of the bizarre, began to blend into the monotonous humdrum of Whiteridge.
Despite the dwindling headlines, the tower remained a fixture in Auceon’s reporting duties. Every hoverboard commute included a cursory visit, a ritual that felt increasingly pointless. Over time, the usual park updates materialized: vibrantly colored flowerbeds bloomed like a scattered kaleidoscope here, a sturdier bench there, and even new playground equipment. Press releases flooded his inbox for each addition, a testament to the town’s dedication to beautification from the tourist-loving city council.
Yet, Auceon couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something like other town mysteries, such as the bright pink bubblegum stubbornly reappearing on the same corner of the mayor’s favorite bench every morning or why some residents swear they hear the faint whirring of clippers coming from the long-abandoned barbershop. The tower remained unchanged, secrets locked away inside the metallic shell.
Today, the white glow that usually emanated from the numbers was absent, a gaping hole in the morning light. Excitement jolted Auceon. The numbers were always on display. With a snarl of the hoverboard’s engine, he rocketed toward the tower, his brown sasquatch fur whipping in the wind.
Another curiosity appeared. Three figures, burdened with boxes, spilled out of a previously hidden door at the base. A desperate scramble, a flash of movement as they vanished around the corner. Follow them? Or delve into the silent, now clockless tower? His curiosity warred with his sense of self-preservation. Following the figures could lead to answers, but entering the silent tower felt equally risky. The choice hammered against his instincts, but he wanted to see for himself what was in the tower.
Auceon stepped through the previously hidden door, anticipation twisting his gut. Inside, the answer to the tower’s mystery wasn’t a single device or inscription but a revelation that defied his wildest imaginings. Walls, ceiling – every surface thrummed with the soft glow of thousands of screens. An unsettling quiet pressed against Auceon’s ears. His gaze darted across the endless screens, each a window into a life unwittingly displayed. A baby dragon playing in a sandbox, an elder sasquatch watering her roses, a gorgon styling the snakes in her hair – the normalcy of the illegal surveillance chilled him more than any monstrous revelation could. Two monitors showed a human girl with rainbow hair holding hands with a ghaukvoi, a biped blue-skinned being with shades of blue hair, as they romantically strolled through the downtown district. Auceon concluded each screen was tracking an individual and not a location. The reporter felt sick, like a tiny insect caught in the sticky threads, and the thought a monitor was scrutinizing and evaluating his every action caused his gut to tighten.
“Hello,” Auceon called out. “Anyone here?”
Silence swallowed Auceon’s calls whole. As he walked up the glass stairs, the echos of his steps reverberated through the metal walls like a tuning fork. The next floor was the complete opposite of what the reporter expected to find. Gone were the sterile surfaces and watchful screens, and instead, a wave of humid warmth washed over him, thick with the loamy scent of damp soil and the sweet, cloying perfume of exotic blooms. Lush greenery, a riot of ferns, and hanging vines filled the space beneath a hidden dome that diffused sunlight into a dappled green glow. The air buzzed with life – the rustle of unseen insects, water trickling across rocks, and a hidden bird’s soft chirp. Soft leaves brushed against his fur as he made his way deeper inside. The unease that once prickled Auceon’s fur like a thousand tiny needles began to soften while in the calming space. What purpose did a greenhouse serve in a surveillance tower? Were people locked in here like a science experiment? Did this keep them sane?
At the end of the greenhouse, two unremarkable doors offered no clues about their purpose. One led to a sterile bathroom, the chrome fixtures gleaming coldly in the dim light. The other opened into a cramped bedroom with bunk beds stripped bare. No clothes, no clutter, nothing to hint at who might have occupied this spartan space.
Just another layer in this unsettling enigma, he thought. This story is going to be hard to write without answers.
Auceon trekked back downstairs to study the screens again. Each screen flickered with a live feed, a mosaic of Whiteridge laid bare before him. A cold sweat prickled his fur, which he attributed to the change of climate between the levels, but a part of him knew his anxiety was responsible.
“What have I stumbled into?” he whispered, his voice swallowed by the oppressive silence.
Waves of static on a single screen snagged Auceon’s attention, sparking his reporter’s instinct like a jolt to the nerves. Why are you not working? He leaned closer, the silence in the room pressing down on him like a physical weight. As he moved in, a single name scrawled on masking tape beneath the display sent a fresh wave of dread crashing through him: Bravak.
The name was a legend whispered in hushed tones across the dimly lit corners of Whiteridge’s taverns. Bravak, they murmured, wasn’t one person but a title passed down through generations, each inheriting a piece of the town’s underbelly. Some claimed Bravak controlled the flow of illegal goods, and their network was a spiderweb reaching every corner of the market. Others whispered of darker things, of bargains struck with beings from beyond the veil, of whispers that Bravak could grant dark desires and wishes. Whatever the truth, Bravak was a name that inspired a cold sweat and a quickened heartbeat, a phantom that lurked just beyond the reach of the law. Some of his fellow reporters thought Bravak was a copout for lazy investigations, but he felt there was some truth to the legends. Whispers of silenced reporters and unsolved disappearances always lingered around the name Bravak.
Faced with an offline monitor of a notorious figure, the dread coiled in Auceon’s gut solidified into a leaden weight, threatening to paralyze him. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to run, to get as far away from this place and this name as possible. The story wasn’t worth death.
Before the reporter could react, the room exploded with sound. The door buckled inward, ripping off the hinges, and a cacophony of grunts and footsteps filled the room, echoing off the metal walls and shattering the oppressive silence.
A mountain of a figure filled the doorway, casting the room into a sudden, oppressive gloom. Auceon craned his neck back, a whimper trapped in his throat. A face, vaguely bull-like in structure, loomed over the relatively tall reporter. His skin, a deep, matte aubergine, reflected the harsh light from the screens in a way that cast shifting shadows across his face. The large, luminous eyes were an electric blue so intense they felt like a physical shock when they came into contact with Auceon. This was Bravak-he had no doubt.
Bravak scanned the room, studying the screens before settling back on Auceon. A feral grin, wide enough to showcase a disturbing array of needle-sharp teeth, split Bravak’s scarred snout.
“You,” his voice boomed, a deep tremor that shook the walls. “So much for discretion. I should’ve known a nosy reporter would sniff me out.”
As Bravak marched forward, the reporter’s heart hammered. Bravak’s monstrous hand, impossibly large, slammed around Auceon’s face, cutting off his air and vision. The stench of brimstone flooded his nostrils. The following deafening roar seemed distant, as if coming from underwater and distorted. Auceon knew this was the end of his journalism career, except for as a person in another journalist’s story. Then, blessed darkness enveloped him.
Thank you to Henry Yusman at Design Pickle for bringing this scene to life. For this artwork, the scene depicted takes place before the events of the story, back to when the clock tower first fell.
This story has been updated from my original version, adding more details, more world-building, and triple the length. Hope you enjoyed!
