They huddled together, crowds of them battling the intense cold. In spite of warm jackets, scarves, mittens, subconsciously they knew that the warmest they would get was when surrounded by other people. Puffs of warm air streaming out with every gasping breath, their bodies pressed closer to one another for warmth, while their pride kept them from it.
The stairs leading up to an office building were covered with a thick blanket of groups and individuals. The groups were much snugger, friendships and family ties ensuring they would last the night without too much shivering; the individuals fit themselves in between the groups, breathing into their hands, shoving them back under their arms. Every one of them was waited, knees knocking, teeth chattering, feet stamping.
It was Chinese New Year. Looking out among the hundreds of people crowded around the square, black iron fence surrounding the grass and ancient trees, the crowd couldn’t have been more than twenty percent Asian, let alone Chinese. It was London, and here was an excuse to race to the Tube Stations towards China Town, fill the streets and restaurants and, especially, the supermarkets; as if the supermarkets were closed every other day of the year. That night was a night for foreign food, far eastern ethnicity, and, most of all, fireworks.
Underneath the overhang which protected the people on the stairs from the buffeting, frigid wind, two policewomen stood, presumably warm in the centre of the crowd and neon yellow vests.
The fireworks began abruptly at six p.m., and although everyone had been waiting for it, no one had really expected the intensity of the lights and sounds. They commenced with the launching of small, bright rockets which cracked like whips fifty feet above their freezing audience. Pinwheels high up on wooden poles had fireworks which trailed sparks and spun them around, turning them into white hot circles of light.
About five minutes through the excitement a line hanging between two trees burst into a shower of sparks, the individual fireworks igniting from one end to the other. They shockingly bright illumination fell upon the crowd like a floodlight, and everyone in front of another person became just a dark silhouette. It was like a waterfall of lights, pouring down on the grass, turning the world into bright and shadow.
It was after this that the large firecrackers began. Strings of them hanging down from poles went off like machinegun fire. To the Chinese there not London born and bred they were reminiscent of funerals, the sound never quite loud enough to raise the dead. Somewhere in the masses an old man heard the noise and watched the flashes of light and remembered.
They continued to go off, thunderous like the games of ninepins Rip van Winkle heard, bright like Hephaestus striking Zeus’ lightning bolts on his forge. A thick smoke, red and orange and brown began to billow out from the square, muffling the flashes. The bursts of light were like the flash from a dozen muzzles, the dissonant sound like modern warfare. Dozens of minds imagined that this was the closest they would ever get to an actual battle.
An eye twitched, and amid the booming like giants’ footfalls a heart beat in unison with the staccato discharge of the firecrackers and stopped. A man’s wrinkled face relaxed from the panic that had so gripped it moments before, and the mouth parted slowly to release a final breath, barely visible in the wintry air.
After the final two, a grand finale that forced glittering light from the ground up into the heavens, the crowds began to loosen. Blood was forced back into extremities and hundreds of minds, slowly draining awe, remembered how cold it was. They left the square in droves, pressed up against each other like salmon spawning. The crowds whose path took them in the direction of the old man flowed around and onwards, water against an obstacle it could not go over.
Purpose in every step they left for their homes, to be satiated at a restaurant which served £4.95 buffet, for a few warm, smoky hours in a pub, to go on with their lives.
Friday, February 20, 2009
just passing through-
She looked too young to be riding on a streetcar alone. Sitting there at the window seat in her blue-green dress, her soft brown eyes watched as she, along with the rest of the passengers, were rushed on into the city, immense office buildings looming overhead.
It was obvious that she wasn’t accustomed to riding on public transit. Veteran passengers who needed to get off at the next one to five stops never sat down- especially not next to the window; the momentary rest wasn’t worth the hassle of getting up and shuffling past the stationary wall of bodies.
Her fingers loosely held onto the neck of a guitar, slightly larger in its thick, black case. One hand traveled over to the other and pulled at the sleeve of a light sweater, stretching it over her wrist. Pale brown hair and freckles stole years from her face; she couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen years old.
The streetcar screeched to a halt in front of a subway entrance, a set of stairs leading down into the concrete sidewalk. She stood up awkwardly and did her best to squeeze past the woman on her left, gently lifting her guitar behind her. Hanging down past her back was a bag that matched her dress, begging for wayward fingers to reach down and shuffle through her belongings.
The last one to step off she heard the hydraulic doors close behind her. Behind the subway entrance a skyscraper towered above the sidewalk and the single-minded individuals that hurried over it. The buildings hemmed in the streets and made you smaller.
Something in those soft brown eyes hardened, and she strode down the tiled steps, into the bowels of the city.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He took the steps two at a time, just making it to the streetcar as the last passenger got off. He caught a flash of blue-green in his peripheral vision, and his mind wondered at the hue marching along past the grey, city streets. He turned his head, but the streetcar doors closed and the colour was gone.
Over half of the passengers had gotten off to take the subway, and he strode down the aisle to the rear to take a seat. Looking to the left and right sides of the streetcar he saw that every seat available had someone at the window. A little early in the day to be tired, he thought, noticing the expressions and, more often, the closed eyes.
He made a snap decision and sat down next to a black man on the left of the aisle, his body falling a little too swiftly into the seat as the streetcar lurched forward. The man grunted, moved closer to the window, and stared down at his watch. A streetcar was not a place for conversation, though for another boy who sat next to that same man that afternoon there would be a chance to hear a fascinating tale.
Staring straight ahead at the backs of people’s heads, he wondered idly about what the day would hold for him. He gazed from head to head as he thought, a balding spot already dealt with pre-emptively with the magic of the comb over, and garish red hair dye on the woman two seats in front. It was just another day of work, just a little money into his bank account, just a bit more purpose to the last remaining month before college.
It was obvious that she wasn’t accustomed to riding on public transit. Veteran passengers who needed to get off at the next one to five stops never sat down- especially not next to the window; the momentary rest wasn’t worth the hassle of getting up and shuffling past the stationary wall of bodies.
Her fingers loosely held onto the neck of a guitar, slightly larger in its thick, black case. One hand traveled over to the other and pulled at the sleeve of a light sweater, stretching it over her wrist. Pale brown hair and freckles stole years from her face; she couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen years old.
The streetcar screeched to a halt in front of a subway entrance, a set of stairs leading down into the concrete sidewalk. She stood up awkwardly and did her best to squeeze past the woman on her left, gently lifting her guitar behind her. Hanging down past her back was a bag that matched her dress, begging for wayward fingers to reach down and shuffle through her belongings.
The last one to step off she heard the hydraulic doors close behind her. Behind the subway entrance a skyscraper towered above the sidewalk and the single-minded individuals that hurried over it. The buildings hemmed in the streets and made you smaller.
Something in those soft brown eyes hardened, and she strode down the tiled steps, into the bowels of the city.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He took the steps two at a time, just making it to the streetcar as the last passenger got off. He caught a flash of blue-green in his peripheral vision, and his mind wondered at the hue marching along past the grey, city streets. He turned his head, but the streetcar doors closed and the colour was gone.
Over half of the passengers had gotten off to take the subway, and he strode down the aisle to the rear to take a seat. Looking to the left and right sides of the streetcar he saw that every seat available had someone at the window. A little early in the day to be tired, he thought, noticing the expressions and, more often, the closed eyes.
He made a snap decision and sat down next to a black man on the left of the aisle, his body falling a little too swiftly into the seat as the streetcar lurched forward. The man grunted, moved closer to the window, and stared down at his watch. A streetcar was not a place for conversation, though for another boy who sat next to that same man that afternoon there would be a chance to hear a fascinating tale.
Staring straight ahead at the backs of people’s heads, he wondered idly about what the day would hold for him. He gazed from head to head as he thought, a balding spot already dealt with pre-emptively with the magic of the comb over, and garish red hair dye on the woman two seats in front. It was just another day of work, just a little money into his bank account, just a bit more purpose to the last remaining month before college.
Friday, November 28, 2008
the cave.
He scuffed his shoes as he walked, imagining the soles of his shoes cutting up the damp leaves underfoot. The grey sidewalk extended forever, and almost every yard held a massive maple tree, their branches cutting off the pale afternoon sky.
Along the sidewalk, street, and yards were patches of light. The leaves were falling, even now, and the gaps they left were like stage lights, the stage crew having left them pointing every which way. His steps brought him through an illuminated area, and his steps hastened oh so imperceptibly.
Up ahead of him he could see where the trees ended, right before an intersection. Out there the whole world was exposed, naked in the absence of the comforting shade. There were no trees to keep out the sky, no houses to push away the wind.
Underneath that massive red-brown canopy he walked, scuffing his shoes as he went.
Along the sidewalk, street, and yards were patches of light. The leaves were falling, even now, and the gaps they left were like stage lights, the stage crew having left them pointing every which way. His steps brought him through an illuminated area, and his steps hastened oh so imperceptibly.
Up ahead of him he could see where the trees ended, right before an intersection. Out there the whole world was exposed, naked in the absence of the comforting shade. There were no trees to keep out the sky, no houses to push away the wind.
Underneath that massive red-brown canopy he walked, scuffing his shoes as he went.
Friday, October 17, 2008
quatre: good morning
It had been a blur- his arms strained against the straps and broke free of them, they had been loosely done with no expectations that this would happen. He’d waited, until the pain had subsided to a dull roar, until his skull had been sown back up, and until it had been trapped inside his head.
His brief scuffle with the “doctor’s”, the frenzied grappling as scalpels and syringes and surgical instruments were grabbed and swung, and thrown around, it was all a haze. He remembered the “timer” the detonator, and lunged for it, and seconds later he stood, back against the wall with it clutched in his hand. They were on the ground, clutching their wounds, bleeding all over.
Looking down, he saw that the screen had been cracked, and it was a mess of red light shining through the tiny black screens.
“When is it set for?”
“We don’t know. We never knew.”
“I don’t even have any meetings planned what do you mean, blowing away half the businesses in America, how can you not know?”
“You don’t ask questions. You never, ever ask questions. You don’t talk about it! There are rul-“
The voices had faded as he walked away.
A warm breeze blew at his back, stinging the wound, ruffling his shirt. Higher in the sky, the sun glinted from the windows, from the cars coasting by, from the sunglasses of people walking past. He wondered why he had bought the house, and remembered the other reasons; remembered imagining loved ones in every room, a home with the curtains pulled up and warm, clean sunlight pouring in.
Richard Gabourel walked down the sidewalk, not knowing where he was going, but knowing what he wanted to do. He had a life that could end any second, and a thousand things to fill it up with.
His brief scuffle with the “doctor’s”, the frenzied grappling as scalpels and syringes and surgical instruments were grabbed and swung, and thrown around, it was all a haze. He remembered the “timer” the detonator, and lunged for it, and seconds later he stood, back against the wall with it clutched in his hand. They were on the ground, clutching their wounds, bleeding all over.
Looking down, he saw that the screen had been cracked, and it was a mess of red light shining through the tiny black screens.
“When is it set for?”
“We don’t know. We never knew.”
“I don’t even have any meetings planned what do you mean, blowing away half the businesses in America, how can you not know?”
“You don’t ask questions. You never, ever ask questions. You don’t talk about it! There are rul-“
The voices had faded as he walked away.
A warm breeze blew at his back, stinging the wound, ruffling his shirt. Higher in the sky, the sun glinted from the windows, from the cars coasting by, from the sunglasses of people walking past. He wondered why he had bought the house, and remembered the other reasons; remembered imagining loved ones in every room, a home with the curtains pulled up and warm, clean sunlight pouring in.
Richard Gabourel walked down the sidewalk, not knowing where he was going, but knowing what he wanted to do. He had a life that could end any second, and a thousand things to fill it up with.
trois: good morning
Revelation after revelation exploded in his brain clearing away thoughts that had lingered only moments before. His whole life lay open before him, and Richard Gabourel could do anything he wanted, swim an ocean, climb a mountain, start a family.
The playground was already far behind him, but the sounds of children screaming and having fun still echoed in his ears. What would it be like to have one of his own, to love and to care for, to raise up and to teach. Thirty-eight and a highly successful businessman, there had been no time, not for dates that didn’t involve the CEOs of other companies, and not for love, a four-letter word rarely heard, if ever, on the golf course.
“We could have picked anyone. There were at least four other people we could have taken, why this guy?”
“Look at him. What do you see? A man with a life who has never lived- we’re not changing anything here.”
He absentmindedly wondered if there was anything even left of his house, 27 Willow Crescent, three bedrooms two bathrooms, a forty-minute drive from the city, large cherry tree out on the front lawn. The payments on that house were forgotten, but why he had bought it in the first place was beginning to surface.
It was supposed to have been a place away from work- away from that world of suits and good mornings and meetings, where people met and met and met, but never knew each other. It was the place where he had been ready to leave for after three nights of sleeping in his office. 27 Willow Crescent, a place but not a home.
They had known enough about him to catch him as he walked out of those plate glass doors, rough hands grabbing his jacket, a needle frantically plunged into his arm, through his clothing. He could not recall wondering why the security guards stood by and did nothing, could scarcely remember his captors, black shirts, black pants, black shoes.
“That should do it then, operation successful.”
“Did you set up the timer?”
“It’s all ready- we let him go, we watch from a distance, and when the time comes-“
“We blow him and the heads of half the businesses in America to kingdom come.”
The playground was already far behind him, but the sounds of children screaming and having fun still echoed in his ears. What would it be like to have one of his own, to love and to care for, to raise up and to teach. Thirty-eight and a highly successful businessman, there had been no time, not for dates that didn’t involve the CEOs of other companies, and not for love, a four-letter word rarely heard, if ever, on the golf course.
“We could have picked anyone. There were at least four other people we could have taken, why this guy?”
“Look at him. What do you see? A man with a life who has never lived- we’re not changing anything here.”
He absentmindedly wondered if there was anything even left of his house, 27 Willow Crescent, three bedrooms two bathrooms, a forty-minute drive from the city, large cherry tree out on the front lawn. The payments on that house were forgotten, but why he had bought it in the first place was beginning to surface.
It was supposed to have been a place away from work- away from that world of suits and good mornings and meetings, where people met and met and met, but never knew each other. It was the place where he had been ready to leave for after three nights of sleeping in his office. 27 Willow Crescent, a place but not a home.
They had known enough about him to catch him as he walked out of those plate glass doors, rough hands grabbing his jacket, a needle frantically plunged into his arm, through his clothing. He could not recall wondering why the security guards stood by and did nothing, could scarcely remember his captors, black shirts, black pants, black shoes.
“That should do it then, operation successful.”
“Did you set up the timer?”
“It’s all ready- we let him go, we watch from a distance, and when the time comes-“
“We blow him and the heads of half the businesses in America to kingdom come.”
Saturday, October 4, 2008
deux: good morning
Richard had life in his step, an epiphany every time his foot touched the concrete. He felt good, loved the air in his lungs, the body he was in, the beautiful morning.
The immense pain continued to break his head open, and he could almost the cold air flowing in to take up space in his skull. Icy fingers, sheathed in thin latex, gently lay themselves on his temples. They felt like sledgehammers, and he inhaled frigid air through clenched teeth, catching someone’s attention.
“Stevens, what are you doing?”
“Whoa, relax, man. I barely tapped him."
"Looks like the drugs have been doing their work. Knock you out for twelve hours, wake up with a hangover from hell."
The sun had moved up over the apartment buildings. Flexing stiff fingers, Richard grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, and, pulling them back, eased it off of his shoulders. He was sure that the shirt underneath was stained with last night’s excursions, with panicked sweat and blood, his and other’s, and fear. None of that mattered. He dropped the jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, letting the morning sunlight warm up his skin.
“Does this mean he’s awake?”
“Who knows? I saw his eyes open, but it’s highly unlikely that can see anything- this lamp must be like a floodlight to him”
Walking past a nightclub, Richard glanced into a car parked right in front. The wasted individual inside was just beginning to react to the newly risen sun beating down on his eyelids. Just before his steps had taken him too far, he saw the young man slump over, not enough energy in his body to turn his head away.
“You’re sure your ‘operation’ isn’t gonna kill the guy?”
“Are you doubting my abilities?”
“No.”
“I’m fairly sure.”
The immense pain continued to break his head open, and he could almost the cold air flowing in to take up space in his skull. Icy fingers, sheathed in thin latex, gently lay themselves on his temples. They felt like sledgehammers, and he inhaled frigid air through clenched teeth, catching someone’s attention.
“Stevens, what are you doing?”
“Whoa, relax, man. I barely tapped him."
"Looks like the drugs have been doing their work. Knock you out for twelve hours, wake up with a hangover from hell."
The sun had moved up over the apartment buildings. Flexing stiff fingers, Richard grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, and, pulling them back, eased it off of his shoulders. He was sure that the shirt underneath was stained with last night’s excursions, with panicked sweat and blood, his and other’s, and fear. None of that mattered. He dropped the jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, letting the morning sunlight warm up his skin.
“Does this mean he’s awake?”
“Who knows? I saw his eyes open, but it’s highly unlikely that can see anything- this lamp must be like a floodlight to him”
Walking past a nightclub, Richard glanced into a car parked right in front. The wasted individual inside was just beginning to react to the newly risen sun beating down on his eyelids. Just before his steps had taken him too far, he saw the young man slump over, not enough energy in his body to turn his head away.
“You’re sure your ‘operation’ isn’t gonna kill the guy?”
“Are you doubting my abilities?”
“No.”
“I’m fairly sure.”
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
intermission- distraction
I tap my feet, trying to read my textbook, trying to understand exactly what Wernicke’s area of the brain has to do with not being able to speak properly. Because if it does, there is definitely something wrong with my Wernicke’s area. Keeping my eyes down, I run my tongue over my teeth, making sure it’s still there. There must be some reason I can’t talk.
Looking up, I inwardly curse and rejoice that she’s still there. A part of me whispers that maybe if I just sit back and stare, I’ll be able to muster up the courage to actually approach her, to bask in her presence, to talk to her. It’s crazy talk, all of it.
Sitting at a table near the reference section of the library, she’s taken the wiser path. To my right the easy chairs next to the magazine racks hold one student; head tilted back, mouth agape, textbook wide open on his lap. Hard uncomfortable wooden chairs are definitely the way to go for the serious scholar.
There has to be a way to get some studying done. And then it comes to me. I can read a page, and look up, through this technique get actual studying done. I’m thrilled with what my brilliant mind has come up with, and then stupidly decide to start it off with a glance.
And then a glance turns into a look. Before it can turn into a stare I drop my eyes to the page, and attempt to start reading again. How can she be so pretty? There are some things that I can’t wrap my mind around- and this is definitely one of them.
After a page of Psychology, I look up again. She’s still reading, eyes intent on the pages. Her eyes glance right to a notebook on the table, a slender hand pushes a strand of long, dark hair behind one ear, and she looks up, grey-blue eyes locking onto mine.
My heart stops.
Thousands and thousands of ideas run through my mind- anything to fix this, anything to make this all stop and have everything back to normal where I don’t even look up every page and where I’m just studying and she’s just studying and work gets done and everything is all right. Nothing comes up.
Her look turns from one of slight surprise to one of vaguely irritated curiosity.
I get up.
My feet are Judas incarnate, and they bring me to her table, standing directly across from her.
I open my mouth.
“Hey, I’m really sorry. Not even just a little sorry- really, really, really sorry. I mean, here you are, sitting here actually doing work and I’m over there staring and um... Not what I was trying to say... You know what? You’re pretty. And maybe people don’t tell you that or you don’t hear it often or whatever, but you are. And I’m sitting all the way over there and I can’t stop looking up. And- it’s just- distracting. I can’t get any work done, because you’re there, and you’re still looking like that. It’s not even that I’m into you, or that I think about you ever when I don’t see you, because I don’t. It’s just when you’re around. And- just- take the compliment... I’m going to go. Find somewhere I can actually work.”
Turning, I walk to the library doors, heart beating like I’ve just been running for my life. And walk out.
Looking up, I inwardly curse and rejoice that she’s still there. A part of me whispers that maybe if I just sit back and stare, I’ll be able to muster up the courage to actually approach her, to bask in her presence, to talk to her. It’s crazy talk, all of it.
Sitting at a table near the reference section of the library, she’s taken the wiser path. To my right the easy chairs next to the magazine racks hold one student; head tilted back, mouth agape, textbook wide open on his lap. Hard uncomfortable wooden chairs are definitely the way to go for the serious scholar.
There has to be a way to get some studying done. And then it comes to me. I can read a page, and look up, through this technique get actual studying done. I’m thrilled with what my brilliant mind has come up with, and then stupidly decide to start it off with a glance.
And then a glance turns into a look. Before it can turn into a stare I drop my eyes to the page, and attempt to start reading again. How can she be so pretty? There are some things that I can’t wrap my mind around- and this is definitely one of them.
After a page of Psychology, I look up again. She’s still reading, eyes intent on the pages. Her eyes glance right to a notebook on the table, a slender hand pushes a strand of long, dark hair behind one ear, and she looks up, grey-blue eyes locking onto mine.
My heart stops.
Thousands and thousands of ideas run through my mind- anything to fix this, anything to make this all stop and have everything back to normal where I don’t even look up every page and where I’m just studying and she’s just studying and work gets done and everything is all right. Nothing comes up.
Her look turns from one of slight surprise to one of vaguely irritated curiosity.
I get up.
My feet are Judas incarnate, and they bring me to her table, standing directly across from her.
I open my mouth.
“Hey, I’m really sorry. Not even just a little sorry- really, really, really sorry. I mean, here you are, sitting here actually doing work and I’m over there staring and um... Not what I was trying to say... You know what? You’re pretty. And maybe people don’t tell you that or you don’t hear it often or whatever, but you are. And I’m sitting all the way over there and I can’t stop looking up. And- it’s just- distracting. I can’t get any work done, because you’re there, and you’re still looking like that. It’s not even that I’m into you, or that I think about you ever when I don’t see you, because I don’t. It’s just when you’re around. And- just- take the compliment... I’m going to go. Find somewhere I can actually work.”
Turning, I walk to the library doors, heart beating like I’ve just been running for my life. And walk out.
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