Wednesday, April 15, 2009

And Then He Awoke : Part 2

Second story in this collection. I've labeled them the true stories of fictional events. This particular story is different because it seemed in my sleeping imagination to be in a series of short acts each dedicated to a particular color. The players in the story are only marginally aware of the color of the act, and they themselves behave as though the pervading color was normal, as though they were used to the entire universe commenting upon their lives.


- 2 -

The World is: Green.

He watched her with admiration. The World seemed to flow around her feet. For her, with her, through her, and she seemed only semi-conscious of her effect upon it. She smiles.

The grass grew for her pleasure, he was sure of it. The birds flew and lit upon her fingers, simply because they knew she would enjoy it.

He was deeply in love - hopelessly adrift in the river that is her beauty. He felt himself moving in the general direction of the rest of the world: following her and doing things simply to hear her laugh and see her smile.

The World is: Blue.

They are in a car. She is driving and smiling and laughing and for some inexplicable reason he is in the seat behind her. They are on an off-ramp or a roundabout or some long curve. She is taking it fast. Very fast, and laughing as she does so. He is in the seat behind her. He can feel the mysterious forces of the speed and the curve pushing - pressing - his body against his door. He can feel his facial muscles ripple with the flow and a sudden tremor in his heart. She laughs.

The World is: Red.

Autumn Red: warm and peaceful.

She has brought him to her home, and, seeing it for the first time, his admiration and love for her only grew. It had no roof or walls beyond the leafy canopy and branches and trunks of oak and fir. Fallen leaves and grass served as the most costly of persian carpets.

But, beyond the natural beauty of her home, what interested and delighted him the most were the things she had brought here to decorate it. The bed, although man-wrought, seemed almost to grow out of the ground. The silken panels above it, which drifted in the wind, must have been woven by fairy hands. Animals from the forest were here and shells from the distant sea. Glass orbs and fanciful puzzles lay scattered across bookshelves, themselves a work of art. Everywhere the eye rested, there rested also another trinket or toy to gather your interest until your eye found the next shiny bauble.

He notices now that she is watching him with delight in the delight she is giving him. He attempts smile, but suddenly finds his expression unresponsive to his will.

The red has deepened without his noticing and saturates everything like a fog. Almost dripping.

His heart, swelled with joy, breaks. With the last of himself he realizes he is becoming, has become, a hatbox. She stoops, and lifting, places him delicately, lovingly, in her collection, between a perfume bottle and coatrack.

And she laughs.

Then he awoke.

Trio Postcard Flyer

Cocktails for a Cause at Trio Restaurant supports a different organization each wednesday. This a small flyer the 'Cause' can use to advertise their event.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Saturday, February 28, 2009

And Then He Awoke

This is the first part of a hopeful series. Hopeful in that I actually hope to have time to complete it. It is subtitled:

"A Collection of True Stores."

I think this could be better if you could see the broken-typewriter font this was drafted in.


- 1 -

He stopped before opening the door to glance up and down the cobblestone street. The sunlight reflected off of puddles, refracted through imperfect windows, and cast an oblique shadow across one half of the alleyway. The wind was blowing gently through through his hair; he could feel it vibrate around the edges of his knit cap. He squinted in the sunlight, watching a bit of newspaper drift past. The sun, and the wind, and the newspaper, and himself were all. Besides these, he was alone.

He pushed the warehouse door. It resisted, red paint peeling from its rusted hinges, but nevertheless budged.

Inside the building now, He peered through the gloom of another world. The cobwebs and thick gray dust were only interrupted by shafts of weary light. The dust itself seemed intent on forcing the light away, swirling up in drafts of wind, as if in armed rebellion against it. The dust appeared to be winning the battle. Through this gloom, the boy can see the vague outlines of walls and lofts and pillars of wood. He’s looking for something, but entirely unsure of what it is; just as he is unsure who or what is chasing him.

Advancing into the room he left a sort of pathway with his already dirty feet, as if it were through snow. The light seemed to cautiously take advantage of the still partly open door to make a brisk charge into this enemy territory, but is turned back again, repulsed by growing number of combatants kicked up into the action by brave bare heels.

Just ahead lay a curious device, rather like a dumbwaiter. It must be used, thought the boy, to take tools and materials to the loft high above. It consisted of nothing more than a square metal platform, spidery railing, and a single slack chain which clung to something near the ceiling. I climbed aboard, hardly knowing why. Looking up, I could see the ceiling, the joists barely outlined in the shadows. Looking down, I grew queasy. I heard the chain rattle over some drum, and creak for want of lubricant.


Image again. I knew time had passed, but not how much. The boy didn’t seem to notice. I’m now standing under the spot where the makeshift elevator once operated. The time has not alleviated our confusion in the slightest. The dust still lies on the floor, only thicker if that is possible. The light still shines through the partly opened door, but perhaps brighter. I go to it - the light and the door - and looking back, I can see an empty chain swinging and creaking gently in the draft.

Outside, the wind is still blowing, now bits of newspaper are joined by aluminum cans, each of which would have been priceless not very long ago. The boy doesn’t know what they are, or even what they’re made of, but I do. The street is paved.

I’m running down the street, frantically searching for meaning, and.. life. I pass unseeing people, turn the corner, feel the wind in the nameless boy’s hair, stumbling over my feet and bits of garbage and priceless aluminum. A dog is barking. I run and turn and run and turn, and am standing next to the warehouse door again. We stop, the boy is breathless.

Facing the dirty gloom once again, we enter the building. Still searching, searching for something, and still uncertain what it could be, and still with the feeling that someone is right behind us, coming closer.

A hand on our shoulder.

The boy can’t turn around. But I force him. I must know.

Slowly, tenuously, we turn to look. The hand does nothing to hinder or encourage us. At once, our breath is gone. There is a woman there, as beautiful as we have ever seen. Strangely outlined in a subtle glow. Strangely causing the dust that is floating in the air to sparkle like mysterious microscopic diamonds. Strangely out of place, but we have the feeling that she is perfectly in place wherever she may appear. Everything about her is strange.. and magnificent.. and perfect. I don’t know what she’s wearing, if anything. She leaves more of an impression, than an image. I’m certain her clothing must be light, and airy, and float in the light breeze that seems focused around her, conflicting with the draft in little turbid whirlpools of shimmer.

Her hand moves from our shoulder to my own hand. Our own hand. The hand of the nameless boy. The functional end of the arm-appendage of the useless physical body that seems to follow me around. Perhaps i follow it.

She takes my hand and leads me to a door in the wall I had not seen before. It’s closed, and locked, but at her touch it opens without a sound from its rust laden hinges. Inside the small room, growing smaller, I look down and see my body.

It would seem that it should be a troubling experience, to see one’s own body. To see the feet that had hurried down the cobblestone street and the hair that had been displaced by the wind ever so long, and not so long, ago. And I did feel that trouble, nagging somewhere at the corner of my heart, but mostly what i felt while hovering above that body, circling the tiny room while the wonderful lady looked on is this:

“I’ve found it.”

And then I awoke.

Roanoke Sketches

Material for a new menu for Trio Restaurant.

The infamous Dr. Pepper sign.

The infamous H&C Coffee sign.

The even more infamous Roanoke Star

The hopefully-soon-to-be-infamous Taubman Museum (i decided, after i put all the hours into this sketch, that i don't like the angle and will redo it.)

The beautiful Hotel Roanoke.

And of course, Trio itself.