Gabriela woke in the parking deck with her backpack beside her and her trumpet in her hand. A man in a baseball cap that read “Howard's Garage” was standing over her.
“Are you, um, okay?” he asked. She blinked.
“I don't know. Yeah, I guess. Sure,” she said.
“I'm just happy you woke up.” She nodded, trying to make sense of what she heard. She sat up. He stuck out his right hand quickly, as if it was something he had been admonished to remember and almost overlooked.
“I'm Pokey Swain.”
“Oh,” said Gabriela.
“I'm Gabriela, I think.” She shook his hand and stood.
“You mean you don't know?”
“Not really. I've only been Gabriela since, well, I don't know. What's today?”
“Is today something? I guess I thought it was just today.” He stared at his feet.
“No, what's the date?” She had lost a day and a night, and now it was evening again. She left Pokey and walked down Mercy Road.
The trumpet, she remembered. The man gave me the trumpet and he died and there was- she shook her head. Fire, she thought. There was fire. There was fire and- she moaned. There was fire, and it came through my hands like spears and there was light, so much light. She staggered towards the diner. She needed to sit down. Gabriela's memory returned in flashes and fragments. She saw the morning sun on the flesh of a corpse, heard a bird sing outside, and then a flash, a shift, a change.
There was heat behind her temples, heat in her fingertips, on her lips, hot coals in her eyes, and then there was light. There was a curtain, a veil, a nebulous-halo, she thought, of gold. Gabriel, Gabriel. I was Gabriel, archangel, I was, there was fire. There was light on my bell, silver trumpet, light in my hands in my eyes in my, in my-hot silver, light on my bell. It was warm and golden but not nice not tame not human. Judgment. The seals are cracked and the bowls of Heaven's wrath poured out on the heads of the unrighteous. It was a silver trumpet in my hands, Selene, and there was a bluesy, Spanish fanfare, and there was fire.
She could see it in her mind's eye. A glow like hot metal emenated from her bell. It focused on the dead man's forehead like a laser. And there was fire, she thought. She saw it glowing like amber, like a ruby, on his brow. She smelled burning flesh, saw bone blacken and disintegrate. She saw skin melt and eyes boil beneath their lids. Fire, she thought. There was fire.
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Murray stepped out of his small, lonely apartment. He needed to go to the liquor store, but didn't want to risk running into the girl.
ReplyDeleteHe walked down the grungy stairs counting as he went.
Her
ReplyDeleteMurray stepped under the luke-warm water that was spraying from the shower head. He tried to scrub away the lingering smell of smoke and alcohol. He couldn't stop thinking about her and he knew it wasn't good. Didn't work out so well last time.
Murray collapsed onto his bed and buried his face in its tangled sheets. Rumples gingerly walked over from the opposite side of the bed and laid down so that his nose was almost touching Murray's.
He was worried. Her thin face appeared every time he shut his eyes. Pressing his palms into his eyes, Murray let out a sigh. He walked over to the window and pulled hard at the stubborn lower sash of the old wooden frame. It didn't budge. He blamed it on the humidity and flipped on the small fan in the kitchen. Then lit a cigarette in an attempt to calm his thoughts. He needed an escape. He was worried.
Backstage behind the scenes of "Henry VI part I" with Gabriela as Joan la Pucelle
ReplyDeleteHe waded through a sea of chickens.
This might've startled some people, but not him.
He didn't even notice them, at all.
He probably didnt even notice the telephone pole directly in front of him.
No, he certainly did not notice the pole, unless he likes running into things.
I can't think of any character in Shakespeare that likes running into things, can you?
That what he is, I think.
If you took every personality from Shakespeare and tossed it in a blender, the outcome would look like Geoffrey's consciousness.
or almost like it.
The original personality is in there too.
Thats me.
I'm mostly forced to the subconscious, and therefore only get to affect him while he sleeps, but I witness everything he does.
Oh bother, I'm so rude, I forgot to introduce myself.
I call myself Chris, because that is my birth-name.
I began going by Geoffrey Marlowe almost 40 years ago.
It was my stage name.
It was part Geoffrey Chaucer and part Christopher Marlowe.
Get it? I thought it was clever.
A friend of mine pointed out later that my first name was Christopher, which was Marlowe's first name as well, so I could've been clever while keeping my first name.
I said that'd be too easy.
I wish I had thought of that though.
I kinda like my name.
He's mumbling some more Shakespeare.
We're walking down the street, its not a pleasant day.
We bumped into someone,
I didnt see who,
stupid me, not paying attention.
Our view moved back up to look at the other being,
Good God thats alot of light.
it hurts our eyes.
"Fair maid, is't thou wilt do these wondrous feats?" He said.
Why'd he say that?
The person is most obviously a man, and tall and strong,
with wings.
That was odd,
the wings bit.
who has wings?
And why'd he call her a maid?
It was Reignier to Joan of arc if I remember right.
huh.
The man has a halo, I wonder if he's an angel.
I just missed whatever they were saying. drat.
stupid musings on the significance of my other personality's choice of words.
He's walking away.
And so are we.
curses.
Angels can cure the mad right? They're all chosen by God and stuff. I need to get to him, maybe he can fix me.
I don't like being broken.
I opened my eyes today. Low light flooded in through the high window, for it was early evening before the sun fell. The pain was still there. The pain, ever-present since my brush with eternity, a thorn in my sanity, tormented me with its resilience. My mind, set ablaze by sin, slowly fired electrical impulses to coax my hurting body into movement.
ReplyDeleteThe clouds moved to cover the sun.
Why did these people help me? Me, with all my guilt and damnation. They hardly know me. Almost two weeks after my fall, they’ve kept me in this shelter from the Hell outside for an eternity. They told me we’re one, family, all because we believe in the same god. That’s why they help. I don’t know what I believe anymore, except for one thing.
I believe that I’m going to go outside.
Stepping out of the mosque, the light dimmed across the street ahead. Behind me, the imam’s advice reverberates into the mud. With each shift of the muck, he breathes into my ear. It’s deafening now, as the sludge flows off of the road I’m approaching. I must continue my trek. To rid myself of the pain, the voice, and the shame, I’ll embark on an odyssey.
My trial is upon me.
Forcing my feet ahead of my discomfort, I started towards the stand. The courtroom around me seemed already decided: The defendant buildings lay empty and lawyer-less to my left. The tower’s accusing gaze bored into my right side, never letting up the assault. The jury of the impoverished judged me from their shantytown, gathering on the sidewalks to observe. The spectator cars honked as the squeezed by me.
I’m going east.
The voice in my ear buzzes incessantly, but now I do not question it. Lightning cracked as the first stop on my journey drew nearer. With no watch and an ever-wandering mind suddenly all-too-focused, I’d lost track of time. But time was of no importance. It was still a day, and the selfish spin of the world still occurs every hour of every day.
It’s getting ready to stop, just for me.
A once-beautiful girl stumbled in the street, briefly blocking my advance. Stricken with hunger and confusion, her almost-empty gaze reminded me how far an angel could fall. I stopped to help her up. Without a word she moved off of my path. My eyes rose to fall again on that nearby bus stop, which I sought. A freshly posted sign told me the bus had broken down.
Mistrial. Because of this, the pain is gone now.