Harbinger, by Jason Michel
The Efficiency, by Kristin Fouquet
Go To Page: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
Harbinger
Jason Michel
And I am flying.
A rush of air forces my eyes closed. Almost knocks my bloody block off. I blink, stabilise myself. It is so easy when you know how.
And I am flying.
Below me, the dark and moody cumulonimbus cloud bringing its pregnant cargo of rain and electricity to the ever changing world with its population and its pollution. Above, the pale blue atmosphere then space and its nebulas and the god-drama of stars. Infinity. And I am there. Somewhere in between.
Swooping. Diving.
I look down my nose to where my moustache used to be. But I no longer look down. My inky eyes look out. And I no longer have a moustache or a nose. Just a white streaked hard ebony beak out the corner of my eyes. My arms have become feathered in the deepest, the most shimmering blue black I have ever seen. The wind pulls me this way and that. My feathers turn accordingly. I try to scream. A scream, not of fear but of exhilaration in the endless sky. All that comes out is a strangled squawk that is shut firm in the wind.
Where I am going I know not.
I care not.
I turn instinctively without knowledge. I naturally drop down towards the cloud. I want to see what he has to say for himself. My wings open as I let the high current of air take me to the disgruntled white beast. The atmosphere around me is becoming bipolar and I stay my distance not to be dragged into the adolescent deity underneath me. It pulses and twists, its destructive power waiting for the time to unleash itself.
It tells me of all the destruction it waits to inflict upon the earth. Of trees bent and struck as it lashes out with lightning for no good reason, of the flood flashing and gales that shape the lives of every creature under it, of the cities, homes and lives torn apart beneath us. It tells me that little birds should stay away from it if they know what is good for them. It bids me to doing something for it; A calling my kind have done since fish became feathered. They should go before it and announce to all those with ears to listen to hide and be safe as death comes knocking.
And I nod and promise just such a thing.
It tells me that I should go now.
And I do.
Gliding down to earth, I pass towns that have seen better days, forests woken up with the springtime smell of sap, groups of doves still lost in reverie. I skim over dog’s heads so that they chase me but never catch me. I circle over cemeteries telling the dead that they should open the gates as more will come to join them. I sit on a wooden fence next to an uninhabited house.
Over all I sing my song of ill omen.
The Efficiency
Kristin Fouquet
Roxy was bored. Sitting on an old leather trunk, she scanned her apartment. Long before the Victorian house had been dissected into separate units, this had been the dining room.
When not working or at school, she was restless. Needing something to do, she took the two flights of carpeted stairs quickly down to the first floor. Holding the door ajar with her sneakered foot, she lifted the brass lid then allowed it to clank shut. Empty. Roxy envied 2C’s mailbox stuffed to capacity with envelopes, catalogs, and rolled up magazines peeking over the top.
Taking her ascent slowly, she thought about the time 2C had taken her out to dinner. It had been awkward, but provided some information on the building’s inhabitants. He told her that the landlady, Miss McDowell, went into the tenants’ apartments when they weren’t around. Roxy hated to hear that. It may only be three hundred and twenty square feet, but it was her three hundred and twenty square feet. He also mentioned that the landlady’s uncle had died in the adjacent apartment to hers, disclosing the mystery behind its perpetual vacancy.
Returning to the third floor, she eyed the uncle’s door. Visions of the old man dead inside piqued her curiosity. She looked around then daringly tried the knob. The door creaked. She resented her landlady’s snooping, but justified her own sneaking. This is different; nobody lives here.
Once inside, she marveled at the size of the empty apartment. It was only one room, but had a sunlit area of large beveled windows. She ran to them. The view over the avenue showcased the oak trees. The swampy green walls were more alluring than her cheery yellow ones. She sat down on the floor and mentally arranged her furniture until dusk dimmed the space.
Disguising her voice on the phone, she inquired about the front efficiency.
Miss McDowell declared, “That apartment is not for rent.”
After work, Roxy dashed home to change her clothes for school. She noticed a large round table in front of the door next to hers. Interesting. Later that night, while reclining in her flannel pajamas, she thought about the apartment and wondered if it was haunted.
Creeping in her slippers, she slunk out, slid over the round table, and opened the door. It was dark, but her eyes quickly adjusted. Streetlights shone through the oaks’ branches, casting spindly shadows which danced imposingly on the walls and floor. She shuddered.
“Is anyone here?” she whispered. Suddenly, a large branch blew against one of the windows, causing her to jump. Enough for one night.
On the following day, the round table was still in place, but a padlock had been installed, making the apartment off limits. Miss McDowell must be psychic.
Without access, her fixation intensified. She had to get in somehow. Peering out, she noticed the kitchen window next door, less than two feet away. Perched on the sill, she opened the window and pulled herself over, swinging her legs inside.
Exhilarated, she paced the prohibited space. Yet, after an hour, boredom began to sink in along with a sudden urge to use the bathroom. She eyed the naked toilet paper bar next to the toilet last used by the dead uncle. No way.
The sound of keys jiggling near the door panicked her. Going out the way she came now seemed intensely more dangerous. Roxy glanced down and envisioned a three-flight fall to the pavement. She had no choice. Scooting onto the ledge, she wished for the confidence she possessed earlier. Reaching for her windowsill, she got it, but her first attempt at swinging her leg over was unsuccessful. Her shoe slipped, leaving her hanging from the sill.
After what felt like an eternity, she managed to use the traction from her sneakers, hoisting herself up. Roxy toppled upside down, safely onto her hard floor. Seeing the bright yellow walls and the roll of toilet paper in the bathroom, she sighed. From this angle, her apartment had never been so perfect.
Photos: Kristin Fouquet
