The detectives, a thirty-something female with long dark hair and an older man with grey hair and mustache, came out of the elevator carrying covered coffee cups. They flashed their badges and pushed open the glass door to the studio without pausing their conversation.
"Don't get me wrong, I love her, but she spouts the rankest mash of drivel and poppycock."
"Poppycock? Who are you?"
"What's wrong with poppycock? My grandfather says poppycock."
"I think you've just answered your own question."
"Oh, hush." She mumbled sheepishly. An attractive woman, she had a slightly gaunt face with high cheekbones and captivating brown eyes. "You know, I wanted to be a model when I was a teenager."
"What made you change your mind?"
"It was just a phase I grew out of, I guess. I don't know. It all just seemed so..." She was searching for the right word. "Vapid."
The receptionist was filing her nails and pretending not to notice them. "All the way back and to the right," she droned without looking up.
Inside of the fashion studio the walls, floor and furniture were all bland varieties of white, egg shell and beige. This was by design. It was the blank canvas over which everything else came to life. Against it, the unadorned mannequins practically disappeared into their surroundings while others displayed vibrant, multi-colored garments. To the left were large windows looking out over Madison Avenue. To the right were giant rolls of fabric in a plethora of hues and patterns. On the far wall, assorted sketches done by colored pencil were posted neatly in rows. They were of female figures in various dresses and gowns, commanding in their presence, always with their arms on their hips. Some stood straight while others had one hip lowered seductively.
"Look at these photos." Higgins was looking at glossy pictures of fashion models he found on a work desk. "Would it kill them to smile once in a while?"
"Smiling is uncool. Unfashionable." Rodriguez couldn't help but smirk as she said it.
"This isn't Moscow. I mean, do they have to project such..."
"I think the word you're looking for is ennui."
"On-what?"
"Apathy. Boredom."
"I swear, Rodriguez, when they assigned you as my partner, they should have issued me a dictionary instead of a gun. Lord knows I'd use it more often."
"This way detectives." A uniformed officer approached. His face was sickly pale, and he seemed relieved to see them. Clearly, he was not used to the sight and smell of not-so-fresh corpses.
He directed them to an office with a placard displaying the name Xavier Leroux. Higgins hung back to question the officer, while Rodriguez went inside.
The medical examiner had already arrived. "It looks like the body has been here for about two days. The positioning and ligature marks around the neck suggest that he was attacked from behind," he added.
"By the way," he was looking at Rodriguez, "navy is NOT your color, detective."
"Thanks for noticing," she shot back.
Higgins came in and handed her a file folder. "This may be our perp. He's an up-and-coming star in the fashion world. Camera loves him, apparently. He and Leroux were seen having an argument last week, and guess who didn't show up for the photo shoot this morning?"
"Interesting." She looked over the file with glamour shots paper-clipped to a bio.
"Quit drooling."
"Shut up." She tried to hide her embarrassment. "Alright. We need to interview anyone with a connection to our vic. And let's put out an APB for..."
******
SAINT MICHEL, Florian Laurent. The letters, once engulfed in flame, shriveled and disappeared into blackness. He turned the card slightly and let the flame run across the picture, an emotionless visage of vanity and emptiness. He held it up and, just as the intense heat began to singe his thumb and index finger, threw it into an urn. The last remaining connection to his former life smoldered and disintegrated. He picked up a broom that was propped against a wall of jagged stone and brushed toward the corner sweep-hole long, curled locks of golden hair.
The quiescence was punctuated by the sudden ringing of a gong. Once. He let the sound wash over and through him as the higher pitches receded, leaving a low bass that too eventually faded. Twice. He put away the broom, put on his sandals, and instinctively looked for a mirror before catching himself. Thrice. He left the room, descended the spiral staircase of a stone tower, and entered the courtyard to join the converging swarm--an anonymous face among a sea of orange robes.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Out of Balance or Prelude to a Fall
A man emerged from the bathroom stall. He rolled down his sleeve, concealing the bruised skin where several needles had been lodged, and made his exit. Dark circles surrounded his eyes and his shirt was tucked in only in the front. It was a fashion faux-pas that one might call a dress shirt mullet.
As he pulled the door open he was hit by a toxic miasma of flashing lights and pulsing sound. The electronic chimes and dings, the rustling of tokens and sporadic mirth were an assault on the senses, and he felt an urgent need to abscond.
A couple blocks from the casino, the streets were empty. They were littered with potholes, and tufts of grass grew through cracks in the pavement.
He closed his eyes and was briefly transported. The same street was now brick and cobblestone, bustling with opportunistic vendors and snake oil salesmen. In horse-drawn carriages, mustachioed and monocled European royalty or be-spectacled industrialists were being chauffeured about. In front of bars and inns, young boys and girls solicited patrons for their respective establishments in the hopes of bringing in tourist dollars and earning a modest commission.
He opened his eyes as a dead man walking--a ghost in a ghost town. The only sounds came from a hanging sign that broke from its chain on one end, waved violently in the wind, and slapped against a wall of concrete.
Before long he arrived at the observation deck where he took in the view. He drifted away again.
The land glaciated and thawed with the passing of seasons and epochs.
The sun swung from east to west as shadows did the opposite. Clouds raced across the sky. The trees bloomed, greened, yellowed and disrobed. All the while a mighty cataract ate through layers of stone and pushed its way across the landscape. It carved out the gorge where the power vista would be. It made a sharp turn and left behind the whirlpool rapids as it continued its recession. As it arrived to more or less its current location, he looked out over the glistening waters at the bottom of the gorge and at the roaring falls with their now unrestricted flow.
And as Niagara falls, it also rises--in tiny ionized droplets, a levitating mist painted by a neon-trimmed skyline.
Such powerful forces contrast the fragility of life--a state of balance that is the product of perpetual imbalance. What is breathing if not a constant switch between a surplus and lack of oxygen? A series of breaths. An alternating current. A chemical stasis. As a sound wave is but a series of crests and troughs, these illusions that we call equilibria are just constantly changing states, averaging out over a duration of arbitrary length. Forward and back went the dance of time.
Sometimes the pendulum swings too far. It comes back as a wrecking ball.
To his right was Nikola Tesla. On his left--Frederick Law Olmsted. There could be no balance between the exploiter and the preservationist. There was a spanning between the two, but to no one's satisfaction. The chasm was too large.
He got up on the railing of the bridge and slowly put one foot in front of the other. Muscles in his body that he never knew he had were making tiny adjustments to keep him balanced. They did this unconsciously, just as the heart beats without anyone having to give it the slightest thought. Beside him on tightropes were the Blondins and Farinis. They crossed carrying others on their backs, with wheelbarrows and bicycles, and with peach baskets strapped to their feet, trying to top the latest stunt. Crowds gasped and cheered from the overlooks.
He stood on the railing of the bridge with arms outstretched, leaned back, and let his body go limp. He was only the latest sacrifice to the Great Spirit of Niagara.
As he pulled the door open he was hit by a toxic miasma of flashing lights and pulsing sound. The electronic chimes and dings, the rustling of tokens and sporadic mirth were an assault on the senses, and he felt an urgent need to abscond.
A couple blocks from the casino, the streets were empty. They were littered with potholes, and tufts of grass grew through cracks in the pavement.
He closed his eyes and was briefly transported. The same street was now brick and cobblestone, bustling with opportunistic vendors and snake oil salesmen. In horse-drawn carriages, mustachioed and monocled European royalty or be-spectacled industrialists were being chauffeured about. In front of bars and inns, young boys and girls solicited patrons for their respective establishments in the hopes of bringing in tourist dollars and earning a modest commission.
He opened his eyes as a dead man walking--a ghost in a ghost town. The only sounds came from a hanging sign that broke from its chain on one end, waved violently in the wind, and slapped against a wall of concrete.
Before long he arrived at the observation deck where he took in the view. He drifted away again.
The land glaciated and thawed with the passing of seasons and epochs.
The sun swung from east to west as shadows did the opposite. Clouds raced across the sky. The trees bloomed, greened, yellowed and disrobed. All the while a mighty cataract ate through layers of stone and pushed its way across the landscape. It carved out the gorge where the power vista would be. It made a sharp turn and left behind the whirlpool rapids as it continued its recession. As it arrived to more or less its current location, he looked out over the glistening waters at the bottom of the gorge and at the roaring falls with their now unrestricted flow.
And as Niagara falls, it also rises--in tiny ionized droplets, a levitating mist painted by a neon-trimmed skyline.
Such powerful forces contrast the fragility of life--a state of balance that is the product of perpetual imbalance. What is breathing if not a constant switch between a surplus and lack of oxygen? A series of breaths. An alternating current. A chemical stasis. As a sound wave is but a series of crests and troughs, these illusions that we call equilibria are just constantly changing states, averaging out over a duration of arbitrary length. Forward and back went the dance of time.
Sometimes the pendulum swings too far. It comes back as a wrecking ball.
To his right was Nikola Tesla. On his left--Frederick Law Olmsted. There could be no balance between the exploiter and the preservationist. There was a spanning between the two, but to no one's satisfaction. The chasm was too large.
He got up on the railing of the bridge and slowly put one foot in front of the other. Muscles in his body that he never knew he had were making tiny adjustments to keep him balanced. They did this unconsciously, just as the heart beats without anyone having to give it the slightest thought. Beside him on tightropes were the Blondins and Farinis. They crossed carrying others on their backs, with wheelbarrows and bicycles, and with peach baskets strapped to their feet, trying to top the latest stunt. Crowds gasped and cheered from the overlooks.
He stood on the railing of the bridge with arms outstretched, leaned back, and let his body go limp. He was only the latest sacrifice to the Great Spirit of Niagara.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Mosaic
Eirlys shrieked with excitement as a gust of wind liberated several helicopters from the limbs of an old maple. She chased one as it whirled and glided through the air. It landed on her shoulder and clung to her white flowery dress and provoked a fit of giggles in the process. She was entering that critical age at which she was beginning to learn where she ended and where the rest of the universe began, creating objects and drawing lines in the world around her through the acquisition of language.
"Kitty!" she shouted as her attention was diverted by the approach of an orange tabby. Scampering towards the furry grail, her legs could no longer keep up with her momentum, and she stumbled, hurtled forward, and planted her chin onto the grassy ground.
Dylan, a locally acclaimed artist, was but fifty feet from his daughter up on a ladder where he had been working on his masterpiece. Upon seeing her trip, he refrained from calling out or running to her and instead watched closely to assess her status. She was fighting back tears that were less the product of physical pain than her growing frustration with her worldly constraints. She defiantly got up and started again at a slower pace--her desire to no longer be an entity separate from the cat unwavering.
The girl's father, now sufficiently assured of his little daughter's continued well-being shifted his focus back to his work. He had always believed that artistic endeavors were a window to the divine, and he too had a need to make sense of the world around him and his place therein. "If we see the world in tesserae, do gods see it in tesseracts?" he mused. This made him think of his own limitations.
Before long, after the cat lost interest in her--or she with it--Eirlys trotted over to her father on the veranda. He glanced downward and playfully stuck his tongue out at her. She picked up a bright orange tile from a stack on the floor, reached up as high as she could, and placed it onto an unadorned spot on the wall. Lacking any adhesive to keep it in place, it fell to the ground and shattered. She was inconsolable.
"Kitty!" she shouted as her attention was diverted by the approach of an orange tabby. Scampering towards the furry grail, her legs could no longer keep up with her momentum, and she stumbled, hurtled forward, and planted her chin onto the grassy ground.
Dylan, a locally acclaimed artist, was but fifty feet from his daughter up on a ladder where he had been working on his masterpiece. Upon seeing her trip, he refrained from calling out or running to her and instead watched closely to assess her status. She was fighting back tears that were less the product of physical pain than her growing frustration with her worldly constraints. She defiantly got up and started again at a slower pace--her desire to no longer be an entity separate from the cat unwavering.
The girl's father, now sufficiently assured of his little daughter's continued well-being shifted his focus back to his work. He had always believed that artistic endeavors were a window to the divine, and he too had a need to make sense of the world around him and his place therein. "If we see the world in tesserae, do gods see it in tesseracts?" he mused. This made him think of his own limitations.
Before long, after the cat lost interest in her--or she with it--Eirlys trotted over to her father on the veranda. He glanced downward and playfully stuck his tongue out at her. She picked up a bright orange tile from a stack on the floor, reached up as high as she could, and placed it onto an unadorned spot on the wall. Lacking any adhesive to keep it in place, it fell to the ground and shattered. She was inconsolable.
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