Post by Lucien Fell on May 25, 2012 17:36:48 GMT -5
<p>(A wall of billboards and old, hollow tenements hides the freeway from sight, the sound of the ceaseless traffic beyond dulled to a whispering drone. At the bottom of a forgotten off ramp a broken traffic light stuck on a flashing amber pulse illuminates the vacant shop fronts with a soft photoflood. It is a poor conciliation for the brilliance that once shone down from the now dark and neglected lampposts once so stylized and admired for their bronze aesthetic. Now when the rainfall lashes at the street the gutter runs blood red from the rusted wounds opened by evisceration of time, the veins within that carried power from beneath the warped, cracked side walk are exposed and loose.)
<p>(There are boards in the window frames of those shop fronts. Where there are no boards the glass is either cracked or smashed or hidden beneath years of grime blown in from the freeway. Where there is no glass at all it is scattered in shards over the concrete and tarmac of the street. Beyond the frames the hollow buildings … nothing; the ghosts and shadows hidden within only speak when the wind blows enough to let them moan in lament for better days. Otherwise the silence of the street is absolute.)
<p>(It is just the way he likes it.)
<p>(He has grown used to it.)
<p>(It was what he wanted, he realized this when he found it when after all of his searching for something else he discovered this street. Whatever else in the world had seduced him without revealing itself or where it was to found this place and this time and this night sitting in the still and sultry summer night suited him just fine.)
<p>(He has kept no time.)
<p>(No watch upon his wrist, no calendar on the shelf not even tally marks gouged in groups of five in the fading, dried out plaster of the wall.)
<p>(Not entirely true, his face shows time but damned if there is a piece of glass clean enough anywhere to show him his reflection and the matted hair and beard that have been left to grow unchecked.)
<p>(Even the wing and rear view mirrors of the Chevy Capri Station Wagon in the loading bay next door are empty frames, the rest covered in canvas sheeting left untouched for so very long. Now, for the first time in a very long time he walks in and moves up to the sheeting placing his hand on the stained, rough cloth cocking his head as if to try and hear a soft heart beat from what lies beneath. He turns away and strikes a match setting the flame to a storm candle sitting on a nearby table. He stops for a moment to take in the sight of his shadow, he is a lean silhouette. From the back pocket of his patched jeans he pulls an envelope. It a telegram (there is no internet out here, thankfully). He has seen a paper like this once before, it had found him then in Colorado this time he found it that morning sitting in Post Office Box waiting to sent back to it sender as it had been so many times before. He was going to close the account down. He was comfortable now, anonymity suited him just fine, this final act would ensure his name was no longer known but there it was on this envelope, his name. He could have ignored it, let it be returned to sender but he claimed the thing and now he was responsible for it and whatever lay in side, he knew what lay inside yet while the envelope remained sealed there was doubt, there was the need to be proven right despite his certainty of it. He ran his thumb along the flap of the envelope before turn back to the candle and placing the corner of the envelope over the candles flame, better to just burn it and forget it. Reduce it to blackened ash and that way both curiosity and pride would be damned. Yet he pulled it back just enough not to let the flame catch the paper; damned if he did this, damned if hi did not. His face contorted beneath his filthy beard as if he was suddenly gripped by a pain. Again he put the envelope in to the flame and slowly the paper blackened. Tiny, thin wisps of smoke rose into the darkness and the flame took.)
<p>(As suddenly as the envelope caught fire, he slammed the paper down onto the tabletop under the flat of his hand smothering the flame and shaking the candle free of it base causing it to roll from the table to the floor. For moment there was darkness, stillness and the subtle and ragged sound of his breath. Slowly he picked up the candle, returning it to the tabletop its flame still burning. He returned his attention to the envelope, using a thing sliver of wood to slip under the flap he slowly pried the gummed tag open. The slip of paper within is removed and laid out on the tabletop at first he just stares at it. The wording on the slip were just shapes unless he chose to make an effort and allow himself to read and understand their meaning. If he just stares then they mean nothing, what requirement was there for him to do more than he had done. He had claimed the letter instead of sending it back, he opened it in spite of his better judgment now there was this moral crisis brewing within over whether not it should be read. After all it was just paper and ink, let it remain just paper and ink after all a letter is not a
letter until it is read until then it was nothing. It had neither power nor purpose unless he chose to read it, then why should he?)
<p>(But still he knew.)
<p>(He knew what would be there if he did choose to read it. He knew what would happen if he would become once he knew what was written there. A let out a long soft breath, his shoulders dropped as he looked in to the flame of the candle. Reaching once more for the message he folded the paper, he did not read the words, he placed the message back in to the burned envelope. Opening a drawer of the table he lay the envelope down. Moving his hand over the other contents his fingers came to rest on a cut throat razor and a single polished mirror about the length and the breadth that would fit say the frame of a rearview mirror to an ’87 Chevy Capri Station Wagon.)
<p>(There are boards in the window frames of those shop fronts. Where there are no boards the glass is either cracked or smashed or hidden beneath years of grime blown in from the freeway. Where there is no glass at all it is scattered in shards over the concrete and tarmac of the street. Beyond the frames the hollow buildings … nothing; the ghosts and shadows hidden within only speak when the wind blows enough to let them moan in lament for better days. Otherwise the silence of the street is absolute.)
<p>(It is just the way he likes it.)
<p>(He has grown used to it.)
<p>(It was what he wanted, he realized this when he found it when after all of his searching for something else he discovered this street. Whatever else in the world had seduced him without revealing itself or where it was to found this place and this time and this night sitting in the still and sultry summer night suited him just fine.)
<p>(He has kept no time.)
<p>(No watch upon his wrist, no calendar on the shelf not even tally marks gouged in groups of five in the fading, dried out plaster of the wall.)
<p>(Not entirely true, his face shows time but damned if there is a piece of glass clean enough anywhere to show him his reflection and the matted hair and beard that have been left to grow unchecked.)
<p>(Even the wing and rear view mirrors of the Chevy Capri Station Wagon in the loading bay next door are empty frames, the rest covered in canvas sheeting left untouched for so very long. Now, for the first time in a very long time he walks in and moves up to the sheeting placing his hand on the stained, rough cloth cocking his head as if to try and hear a soft heart beat from what lies beneath. He turns away and strikes a match setting the flame to a storm candle sitting on a nearby table. He stops for a moment to take in the sight of his shadow, he is a lean silhouette. From the back pocket of his patched jeans he pulls an envelope. It a telegram (there is no internet out here, thankfully). He has seen a paper like this once before, it had found him then in Colorado this time he found it that morning sitting in Post Office Box waiting to sent back to it sender as it had been so many times before. He was going to close the account down. He was comfortable now, anonymity suited him just fine, this final act would ensure his name was no longer known but there it was on this envelope, his name. He could have ignored it, let it be returned to sender but he claimed the thing and now he was responsible for it and whatever lay in side, he knew what lay inside yet while the envelope remained sealed there was doubt, there was the need to be proven right despite his certainty of it. He ran his thumb along the flap of the envelope before turn back to the candle and placing the corner of the envelope over the candles flame, better to just burn it and forget it. Reduce it to blackened ash and that way both curiosity and pride would be damned. Yet he pulled it back just enough not to let the flame catch the paper; damned if he did this, damned if hi did not. His face contorted beneath his filthy beard as if he was suddenly gripped by a pain. Again he put the envelope in to the flame and slowly the paper blackened. Tiny, thin wisps of smoke rose into the darkness and the flame took.)
<p>(As suddenly as the envelope caught fire, he slammed the paper down onto the tabletop under the flat of his hand smothering the flame and shaking the candle free of it base causing it to roll from the table to the floor. For moment there was darkness, stillness and the subtle and ragged sound of his breath. Slowly he picked up the candle, returning it to the tabletop its flame still burning. He returned his attention to the envelope, using a thing sliver of wood to slip under the flap he slowly pried the gummed tag open. The slip of paper within is removed and laid out on the tabletop at first he just stares at it. The wording on the slip were just shapes unless he chose to make an effort and allow himself to read and understand their meaning. If he just stares then they mean nothing, what requirement was there for him to do more than he had done. He had claimed the letter instead of sending it back, he opened it in spite of his better judgment now there was this moral crisis brewing within over whether not it should be read. After all it was just paper and ink, let it remain just paper and ink after all a letter is not a
letter until it is read until then it was nothing. It had neither power nor purpose unless he chose to read it, then why should he?)
<p>(But still he knew.)
<p>(He knew what would be there if he did choose to read it. He knew what would happen if he would become once he knew what was written there. A let out a long soft breath, his shoulders dropped as he looked in to the flame of the candle. Reaching once more for the message he folded the paper, he did not read the words, he placed the message back in to the burned envelope. Opening a drawer of the table he lay the envelope down. Moving his hand over the other contents his fingers came to rest on a cut throat razor and a single polished mirror about the length and the breadth that would fit say the frame of a rearview mirror to an ’87 Chevy Capri Station Wagon.)