Turn the Sky Off
[fiction]
Today is the day; three hours from sundown for the end to commence. People pause under an eclipsed heaven above, so below, the void devours us whole. At least that’s how the heart sees it. It’s three hours from sundown and Nick Drake’s Three Hours plays and plays and plays—in a loop. I’m strolling down North Canal. Fall’s last wet breeze blows reds, oranges, and yellows from the trees—Strewn above the expansive grave growing hungrier for bones and all the humours that soak into tacit joy expressed with its lagniappe chance to continue the cycle—of cultural phagocytosis. And we fall like rain only to burn into vapor, elevate into cloud and fall again—In search of a master, in search of a slave.
Day four-hundred-and-fourteen recounting the exact steps we took last; same route: hundreds of windows frame others as it does with us; ensconcing depravities, fears, ambition and isolating loneliness inside a capsule meant to be a safe space. Streetlights are on. Buses and humvees—vvfff— pass north to south and vice versa. Once I cross the river on Lake it’s a straight shot until Dearborn and then a right: everything after the river stands barren to outsiders but I can sense their eyes on me. You can hear wind rustle between buildings, the howling like metal sheets waving and cutting pressured air. Swooshing high speed aluminum foil.
Fiorella’s voice is burning coals to my ears, and the thought of them vibrating in my mind brings heat to every bone in me. “Are you even listening?” she asks, her Chelsea’s splashing on the puddled sidewalk. Answering shouldn’t be complicated, a simple Yes, would allow her to continue, even if it’s No; but if I say No, might as well pour the rest of this Evian over her head.
“I am, you’re talking about those guardsmen. It’s a tragedy—wind-currents drown my voice as soon as it touches air— but they shouldn’t have been there. Don’t you agree?”
Above us you can hear rattling—SKSKSKSKSK—from a helicopter hovering above the emerald-green building behind us, to our left. I put the water bottle in my backpack.
What? When I peek to my right—Nobody—Then to my left—James Nederlander Theatre—I walk inside the dim lit space and it is empty of people, the scent of wet dirt lingers. There’s only a chair sitting in the middle of the room and behind the chair in the far back of the room are two doors to two different rooms. Lacquered black doors with silver polished knobs stare into my eyes, and I step back. “Hey, what’re you doing?” Fiorella says, startling me. “You have your badge, right?”
“Sheesh, I could’ve hurt you. I thought I lost you for a second; yeah, I got it. What is this place, do you know?”
Her room’s walls covered in odd shaped mirrors of distinct sizes, all warped, but don’t tell her that, I’ve gone down that road and ended on foot. Three Hours ends, or I finally skip it from the repeat. Nude by Radiohead plays next and it’s not her room I’m in but it’s the room before me like morning mist.
Fiorella’s not here, not now, not physically. I should understand that. Understanding is the universe contained in a strand of hair. I learned that climbing the stairs in between her’s. The smell of her perfume cuts my breath for a dry second.
Years ago, inside the sundrowned apartment, you could smell the crepe batter cooking slow in the coated nonstick pan on top of the range with a low flame below. As soon as it sheened you saw me flip it on its other side and cut the fire off. Whipped cream inside the KitchenAid bowl with twelve grams of Madagascar vanilla and one-hundred-and-fifty grams of caster sugar. Her feet hovered soft in the air, hanging from the arm of the sofa I could see her pale blue jeans loosely cut at her ankles. Pale Blue Eyes played on an Audio-Technica in the living room corner, next to the sliding doors that opened to the balcony, overlooking South Wells street. Inside the sink a chinois sat with a film of batter on the outside mesh, thinned. “Aren’t you going to finish getting ready?” I served the white crepe on the plate. “How many do you want?”
“I’m okay, thank you.” She flipped a page on her book. “Kelly and I are grabbing a bite in Logan. This book is so good. Huuu–Okay!” I stayed quiet and poured a second crepe on the pan, shifting it around until it coated the bottom. “I’ll get off the couch.” Lowered the flame and looked back at her on the couch; heard her shut the book. Then she jumped off the couch and ran towards me. “Oh, no. I’m late! Shit, okay, gotta go. Gimme a kiss.” I flipped the crepe and killed the gas or at least I thought I did, at the moment. “Hey. You’re putting a shirt on, right?”
Fiorella laughed and glanced over her shoulder as she picked her blouse from the counter.
“Still no news?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t on my phone. Okay, bye. See you tonight.”
Her voice stayed back, behind the closing door. Behind the twisting lock—letting anyone near know the door’s closed now, there’s no-body inside. I see the succulents in the balcony, leaves gleaming; the train rumbles the railway tracks, metal clattering as it speeds, drilling through the brick and concrete dense forest that is Chicago.
Outside, a clatter followed by bursting machine-gun fire—then a crash echoes loud. “Halt! Non-authorized vehicles will get shot on sight.” I run towards the west wall and lay flat against it—peering towards the revolving door—Back quarter hind of the humvee with a gunman on top. “They’re not in a vehicle, man,” says the one manning the M2A1. “There! Shoot!” says the driver. The belt feeds as fast as the cannon can spit the .50 cal out.
I raise the volume and Fontaines D.C., Roman Holiday starts to play. Even then, the noise rattles the room. Love this song
“Fucking drive! Why are we stopping?”
—Lightning ripping from one end to the other blows through the gunner’s helmet—
Head turns to a splattered maraschino cherry pie. His body drops like an overripe mango. And the humvee drives off in Daley Plaza’s direction.
Sniper
It takes me a second to notice my hand on my head and the headphones around my neck, I can still hear the song playing. The lacquered door hums—I glance for a second—A loud swooshing flat-dry projectile whistles past and blasts what sounded like the street and then squeaking shock absorbers—I run to the door and stare at the scene—You can hear the debris from pavement fall. Humvee flips screeching the road ending upside down in what used to be Petterino’s patio sitting.
Outside a cloud of smoke and dirt runs south. I can’t stay put.
So I run. When I zag—a bullet whizzes by my left ear from behind. I fall on my hands and jolt back up and keep running without looking back then my heart pounds my eardrums and the TUKUN TUKUN TUKUN is all there is to hear and my breathing gets heavier with each step the oxygen sitting mid-chest nose clogged and I see a figure in the plaza. The shadow of a person.
Clouds roll a curtain and blue smoke shoots south of Daley—arching above the figure. Wind pushes them enough that a stream of light pours on the figure—like a saint.
Daley Plaza. The figure raises their rifle: the running man waves his hands at them: behind him—Rifle barrel steady in front of the smiling face of the soldier—Finger on the trigger—Breathe—SQUEEZE.
your words are like butter
Really pulled in by this. And I loved "sundrowned apartment"