There was no address, only a whispered map. The name of this place—these people—suggested something shadowy, if not downright criminal. But I had no choice, at least not the choice I might have had before the last gig fell apart. The car fetched enough to buy some time. The house would be next, but I had to find a way to pay. Anyway, what good would those things be if I couldn’t get my child back? Lifting the knocker brought a chilling squeal of old metal on metal…
0 Comments
Belief is one of those things—like parenting or caution—that sits atop a pile of notions about how the world works. So, when some of those notions fractured and fell away, Sister Grace had to reassess. Creation isn’t always adding things. Sometimes it’s taking things away. She was holding the artifact so tightly, when it left her hand--if it left her hand—it would leave a deep impression on her palm…
They’re fucking with me. Leave the money here? Under a sign for The Drop? A little on-the-nose, don’t you think? Why not just sell it? Holding artwork for ransom seemed like just another trending crime, until it was mine—lifted right off my wall. Irreplaceable, like a spouse or a child might be, I suppose. I finger the envelope in my pocket and I think about my precious in the hands of some ingrate. Her grace and her depth. And her market value. I’m unaccustomed to having the lesser hand...
She wasn’t the only muse or angel or whatever, but when I walked the garden, she was the one who most often grabbed my attention. Trouble was, once she had it, she went quiet. Only by looking past her—listening past her, to the patter of rain or the sparrow calling—only then could I hear her. Humming or whispering a passage from her book or winging gently, anxious to lead me away, she did. Just need to play it cool…
Against his will, the water drew him. It was dangerous to go there—to be seen there. But there he was, hoping what he’d lost—or maybe cast away—would come back to him...
The old photo equipment was a gem—and a steal. Setting up an old-school darkroom for his granddaughter was just the thing to connect with her. “She’s not broken,” he’d tell his son (her father), “She’s an artist. Such an eye, she has.” The estate sale marked the end of the line for the family some said had been oligarchs in the old country. He didn’t know about that. But one of them, at least, must have photographed for a living, or as a hobby, and they’d kept the old equipment clean. So it was a surprise when setting up, the girl found a negative left behind in the enlarger. But the bigger surprise was the subject—an echo from a very dangerous time…
Some loved the anti-gravity machine, others, not so much. But when the boys’ ride was over and their launch seat settled to almost still, the utterly empty park caught them both by surprise…
The whole idea of a business meeting—in this city, after last night—seems preposterous. The toast, the proposal, the brawl they set off, all head-shakers in the light of day. Still, there are bills to pay, appearances to maintain...
They all had a different story. Whatever’d brought them there—proximity to the local beauty, the first spot to rest off the relentless stretch of mountain highway, the ability to pay by the hour—none of it would have prepared them. Not for the one permanent resident, and certainly not for each other…
I thought by leaving town, getting some fresh air, taking a trail through the limestone cliffs, I’d shake her. No dice. Overdressed for the mud and moss, purse in hand, that absurd feather sprouting from her hat, she rounded the bend, like she had some business being here—in this time, this dimension, this plane of existence...
Occasionally the boy will ask why they come here, to this exact stretch of sand, every day. She’ll say, “just because” or “isn’t it beautiful” or “why do you think?” But she is really just waiting for her lover, the man, the father who named this as the spot to which he’d return. So, the boy plays and she watches the waves…
She thought she had something that set her apart. Still thinks so. But landing here with these...average stiffs? So disorienting. Especially considering the places she'd been shown in her heyday...
Of course, she couldn't possibly remember that kiss, at that age, from that man, could she?
It was time. Past time, really. He'd come all this way and now, in this most picturesque of places, with the precision of a watchmaker, the thing would be done.
Yesterday he didn't know the difference between a coffin and a casket. He remembered Pa's motto: "Don't need nothin' more'n a pine box." Ma was fancier, but maybe the secondhand casket was a step too far. And he really needed a bigger truck....
Jealousy can bloom right alongside desire and often does it with cruel irony. Gigi took this way home trying hard to avoid seeing her at all, much less like this. Did he know what she knew?
He’d need time and some space to process this new demand. Her family had the money and she ran the show, but he was the one who made magic. She knew it—knew he was why patrons came in droves. The ultimatum was just the old world judging the new. He did love her, but not how they expected. How much of himself could he keep secret just to keep the money flowing?
Piecing things together meant looking back at where they’d been. Two years—in that place. Painful, maybe, but not unhinged or anything. Still, there were things they hadn’t noticed before. Things that in retrospect might’ve said, “slow down.” Might’ve screamed, “this won’t end well.”
There are so many parts of this journey that are inexplicable. If she had to choose one aspect that stood out, it would be the unnerving void of communication. Not a word. A test, possibly?
|
If you do write something…Images are all original and all human-made in-house and can be used (very liberally) under Creative Commons license if they're useful in any way for your creative project. Archives
October 2024
Categories
All
|