Slopes

Matthew's whole face sloped forward as if pulled by the gravity of his oversized mouth that his piercing couldn't conceal.




Photo: Nightmare-Beta

The Gallery

The gallery was full of the obligatory minglers: reporters, financial friends of the gallery, the hippie who’d hit it rich but stayed true to his roots, pretentious art snobs posing as factory workers, socialites and their leashed husbands. Instead of looking at the canvases on the walls, the guests milled about in groups of five or six sipping free drinks and gossiping.

Aislyn slipped inside without being noticed and let Alfred off his leash. The Great Dane slid among the crowd with the stealth of an alley cat. When a guest noticed the mammoth dog, Alfred would bow his head in chivalrous mockery; however, the vain canine was merely showing off his new red collar studded with faceted cut glass. The old boy flashed his jewels like a society wife wiggling her wrist to get everyone to notice her new tennis bracelet.

The gallery manager parted the crowd. “I can’t believe Aislin Ryan is in my gallery,” she said, sounding like a cheerleader lost among the black suits. “Oh my God! I’ve never had this many people in here. It will be a sell-out for sure.”

Photo

Shoes

He was wearing lawn mowing shoes--deep green stains streaked away from the toe as he were called from menial chores to join an emergency board meeting.


Photo: Momzze

Investigating the Dorms

Jonas navigated the narrow hall redolent with the smells of wet dog, sym socks, and stale soda. Men’s dormitories around the country seemed to smell exactly the same. Jonas equated the scent with freedom, left over teen angst, and fumbling sex.

A blonde boy in only low slung athletic shorts jogged out of his room and turned into Jonas. The boy’s eyes flashed with recognition. Embarrassed, he gasped and stepped back into his room with the slightest bit of a bow.

It would either be blowing snowflakes in Hades or the University was crumbling into Lake Onondoga before the Dean of Students would stalk the residential hallways. Today, however, hell remained a balmy 355 degrees and Syracuse University remained on the hill over looking Salt City.

Writing in the deli

I had a bit of cabin fever this morning. So I packed up my laptop, phone, and journals. The Hy-Vee deli isn't much to look at, but it is warm and it isn't the same four walls I've been staring at for the past week.

It is also a good place to come to concentrate. From here I can't see the dirty dishes or the pile of laundry in the hall or the sewing projects that need my attention.

Drive to work

Marc lit a cigarette as he sat watching planes land at O’Hare. One right after another the metal birds dropped from the sky in a choreographed dance of plane and runway. The light finally changed and cars lurched forward.

Marc’s commute across Chicagoland was usually spent chatting with Lin, discussing his latest failed foray in dating or the frustration of being a student affairs professional at the University. Although Marc was usually able to wear all the hats his job required, this week had taken a larger toll. The idiocy of undergraduates was astounding. It seemed the high IQ was directly proportional low common sense and self esteem, as if the rules of basic human interaction didn’t apply to smart kids.

Robin Grayson, a third year, pre-law student, had disappeared from campus on Monday afternoon. It wasn’t unusual for students to take off for a few days; however, Robin didn’t show up for a date with his girlfriend, missed several days of classes, and left a cryptic note with his roommate. The National Merit Scholar has prone to making bad decisions, but he had perfect attendance and never missed an opportunity to argue with his Political Science professor.

After an alcohol poisoning, Robin was required to meet with Marc weekly to discuss the choices he was making. Like a scene pulled from Good Will Hunting, Robin was silent for the first session. The second session was a diatribe about Nietzsche and nihilists. It was in the third visit that Marc was able to kick the door open. He’d never forget the physical and emotional regression he witnessed that day, although he’d seen it happen once before.

Marc stroked the cell phone in his hand. He wanted to call her, ask her advice about the boy, yet his intuition told him not to dial the phone. The vision that he couldn’t shake was that Robin and Lin were two magnets drawn to each other and if he spoke to Lin the poles would shift and Robin would be repelled and never found.

Photo: LightMelody

Alfred

Duke's unzipped parka slid off one shoulder as he stared at the grey house wanning under an darkening sky. The drizzle was turning to snow and dusting his think lashes.

"What happened here?" Duke asked.

"My childhood."

"Did someone die here?"

"Not exactly." Aislin thought about the shadow of her mother haunting the house. "Come in. There's a couple of somebodies I'd like you to meet."

Duke entered the house his eyes roving and searching for tangible evidence of the sad spirits he perceived. Clocks ticked. The furnace hummed. "There's no one here."

Aislin tapped his should to turn his around. She walked two fingers across her palm.

Duke wrinkled his brow and shook his head. "What?"

She grabbed his hand and walked his hand and marched her fingers across his palm. "Walk?" Duke said.

Suddenly there was a thud overhead followed by a cacophony of movement.

"What the--?"

Alfred rounded the corner, misjudged the turn, and slid into the wall. Alfred recovered, knocked Aislin out of the way and plopped his rump down in front of Duke. The dog's massive head was level with Duke's navel.

"Hello friend," Duke said.

Alfred nuzzled the boy, flipping Duke's hand on top of his head. The boy began to laugh. It was the sort of bouyant laugh that filled the room.

"What's his name?" he asked through giggles.

"Sir Alfred Pennyworth III."

The dog chuffed and looked back at him.

"Batman's butler?"

Photo: nikkiburr

Preparation

Alexander faced himself in the mirror, checked the dimple in his tie, looked up his nose for stray hairs and boogers. He winked his approval at his reflection and left the bathroom.

The office Lex kept at home was immaculate but he straightened piles of legal pads, fluffed a bouquet of pens, and realigned books lining the walnut shelves. Returning to the bathroom, he again checked his tie and realized fidgeting didn’t suit him. Mercifully, his mobile phone buzzed in his jacket pocket.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Napier, the sheriff just called wondering if you were available to meet him for coffee tomorrow to discuss the Hodges’ case,” Elaine said, her voice was the smooth velvet of a southern upbringing, more of lilt than a drawl.

Lex smoothed the lapels of his jacket and asked, “Should I call him?”

“I think he’d appreciate that, sir.”

Although Elaine was thirty years his senior, she insisted on calling him sir much to his chagrin. “Thank you.”

“And sir—”

“What is it, Elaine?”

“Do you have a date for the art thing tonight?”

“I’m meeting someone there.”

Lex registered the shock in Elaine’s pause. “Well, don’t forget your manners and compliment her shoes,” Elaine said.

Lex pressed end, found Sheriff Gordon’s number, and dialed.

“Just the man I wanted to talk to,” Gordon said in lieu of a traditional hello. “How’s nine o’ clock tomorrow sound? I’ll bring the coffee.”

Photo: Navros

Home before the sun

The sun had put on work clothes and was headed for a day tending to the Iowa crops. The eastern horizon blazed pink and orange was the work day began. Brigid could feel the sun's approach in her veins like a tidal pull calling the ocean up the beach. As the tide rose, her foot grew heavier on the gas pedal urging the BMW over 100 mph. She'd wanted to be home before daylight's liquid fingers stroked the earth.

Photo: bliitz

Road to Chicago

Trains rumbled through the pre-dawn light. The rail cars marked by the graffiti of distant cities. The gang tags were unreadable to an untrained eye yet Brigid admired the colors and lines. A set of railroad tracks paralleled Highway six across Iowa. Brigid passed small towns sustained by the fruits of the land: corn, hogs, cattle. Old men in feed/seed hats that sit around small cafes discussing Co-op politics. She wondered what would happen to these communities and farms when the greatest generation left this life. Global economics, boardrooms, and the corporate lifestyle were more seductive to newer generations rather than the prospect of throwing on a pair of overalls and fixing the John Deere. Brigid figured living on a farm must be a study in patience and faith: wait to plant, pray for rain, pray for sun, wait to harvest, wait for spring. Although Brigid had patience to weather granite and strength to move a mountain, yet farming seemed so tedious.

Photo: Parawan