Collapse
Thousands of people crowded onto our property.
Title: Collapse Media: Rice paper, polyurethane, colored pencil, blades of grass
And there amongst the cacophony was the steady rap of the auctioneer selling everything—old farm equipment, tools, tack, buildings, all forty acres of farm land, and the woods were on the block. I remember when they sold the woods. The auction was a huge party for my mom, her sisters, and her brother—a cathartic unloading of material and emotional baggage. Everything went. Except the house. That pink and white two-story farm house that held the worst of the memories. The house their mother died in. The house they heard her get beat-up in.
No.
There was no one in the county who wanted that house.
Pleiades: The Seven Sisters
A shrill ring jarred her into consciousness. Sleep paralysis welded Virgie to the bed as she was shocked by the void between wake and sleep. Had she heard a ring? It wasn’t possible. Eyes wide, barely breathing, she tried to understand. Thunder grumbled low and distant as rain struck the windowpane above her head. It had been raining since this morning. This horrible morning. She remembered where she was, and why. Had it just been a sound from the storm?
The bell rang again.
Title: Canopy Media: Craft paper, polyurethane, house paint, clay birds, branch
Her mind raced. She was fully awake; there was no mistaking the sound. The bell wasn’t delicate. The knell was sharp and manic as the hammer relentlessly pounded the thin tin walls. Only the Old Man would rig up such an obnoxious piece of equipment to signal the girls for her.
She did a mental roll call. Darlene was dozing next to her, her shoes still on her feet. In the bed, across the room, the three youngest sisters napped, exhausted from the funeral. Virgie could hear Big Sis and Little Sis down in the kitchen. The Old Man had gone to his sister’s house and left her alone to mind all her young sisters. The twins downstairs were not racing up here to answer the beck and call of the bell. Surely they had heard it. Who had pressed the switch? No one had even gone into the room since Mumma died, three days ago. A cold sweat beaded her top lip as Virgie reached a fear-palsied hand towards Darlene and pinched her as hard as she could.
“OW! Virgie, what the HELL?”
“Did you hear that?” Virgie managed a whisper that squeaked out the side of her dysfunctioning lips.
“Christ, it’s gonna leave a bruise,” Darlene complained as she rubbed her upper thigh as a welt formed.
“Did. You. Hear. That?” Virgie rasped through clenched teeth.
“What?”
“Shhh.”
The bell rang again.
This time everyone heard. Doris, Dolores, and Dingle bolted upright in the bed they were sharing. Dingle started crying. Darlene grabbed Virgie’s wrist in horror, forgetting the painful pinch. Big Sis came running up the stairs trailed by Little Sis spewing her ten-year-old brand of obscenities. “GODUMMITGODUMMITGODUMMITGODUMMIT!”
“Who did that?” Big Sis demanded as she raced into the bedroom. “VIRGIE, did you do that – are you trying to scare us again?” Little Sis peeked over her twin’s shoulder, her eyes were platters filled with fear and expectation.
“I didn’t do it, I swear.” declared Virgie as she stood on rubber legs. She put on a mask of false bravado and started out of the bedroom, six young girls followed like frightened ducklings. Four bedrooms filled the upper floor of the farmhouse. Since she had come home from the hospital Mumma had stayed in Darlene’s room across the hall, closest to the staircase. “Who’s in there?” Virgie demanded as she stomped across the short distance between the rooms. By God, she’d kick the shit out of anyone in that room for scaring everyone. She half hoped it was the Old Man. She waited for him to yell back, but no answer came. Her trembling hand rattled the loose brass doorknob. “HEE-YAH!” she yelled as she flung the door wide and jumped into the room assuming a crouched wrestler’s stance ready to tackle the interloper.
The room was more than empty.
Eyes of the Beholder
He saw me before I saw him. I might not have seen him at all, in the same way that all New Yorkers choose not to see what isn't directly relevant to them. I might not have seen him because of the ashen film that covered his clothing, skin, and hair, blending into the patch of concrete where he sat–camouflaged so completely he might have been a mirage.
Title: Crawl Space Media: Craft paper, polyurethane, house paint, string
I might not have seen him were it not for his rheumy grey-eyed gaze that seemed to burrow into the very core of me, drawing my attention, drawing my focus, drawing me out of my myopic view of the crowded street, as if he knew me more than a glimpse could tell. He saw me more than I saw him.
Poor soul.
How long had he been there before he turned the color of sidewalk? I reached into my pocket for some change but only found a five. More than I ever would have given any of them. But it seemed worth the price, if only to divert his gaze from my soul. He had no upturned hat, no plastic cup, no open box, or even a scrap of cardboard that indicated a collection plate. He saw me with the money but he didn't extend an eager hand–forcing me to come closer than I was comfortable with. Forcing me to interact. Yet not until I said 'here you go' did he lift his hand from his lap to take the bill. All that awkward space and not once did he divert his eyes from mine. I released the bill grateful for my next step of escape that would surely break his perception of me.
Only then did he say, “Wait!”
Calm, clear, so unexpected it made me seize.
“I don't need all of this.” and with that he pulled three singles from an unseen pocket in the folds of ashen grey. I couldn't collect my thoughts. I had no thoughts. I did nothing but return his ever present stare. My heart beats with more conscious thought than the movement of my right arm as it reached for the change. Only then did the subconscious puppet master command me on my way. My back was to him as I walked toward the waiting subway station.
Though I no longer saw him, I know that he saw me.