what am i doing? (starts packing a suitcase) where is my life even going? (gets into a taxi) maybe things will change now (hands the ticket to the woman at the counter) i can already sense it (boards the train) like the atmosphere being blown off a planet (watches the scenery start to blur)
2/2014
The setting sun gave its last golden breath to the city before retiring for the night. Geraldine Ludovico paused on the stoop of the old brownstone she was about to enter. Straightening her stockings tentatively, she took in a deep breath, straightened up, pressed the buzzer for 5A. Pen, paper, and tape recorder accompanied her- she was apprehensive about this interview. Rumors swirled around Ms. Vivian Smith-Smythe-Smith: famed shut-in, eclectic, once a woman about town. Haringtown’s Boo Radley had once been a local celebrity, gracing the stages of all the most popular theatres. She hadn’t been seen in years. What Geraldine met after climbing flights and flights was what the rumors had taught her to expect. The door groaned open; the place smelled like well aged paper and decay. Old photos filled every inch of available wall space- glamorous headshots, news articles in frames, stills from theatre performances. There sat Vivian on her decaying Louis XV style settee- the wood’s finish had flaked off in an outline around it; cushions were unevenly faded, fraying threads dangling where upholstery met wood. Vivian’s hair and facial expression gave one the idea that she’d just stuck a fork into an outlet. Hollowed cheeks, hollowed eye sockets, a complexion that looked faintly as though a thin film of mildew was slowly replacing her skin. “How are you doing, Ms. Smith-Smythe-Smith?” “Quite well, quite well. Flowers are blooming nicely.” “It’s fall.” A polite smile, a change of topic. Geraldine seated herself in a coordinating chair across from her and started her interview. Ms. Smith-Smythe-Smith began recounting the events in each picture that hung on her wall. On the last one she paused, looking fondly, longingly at the scene. An empty stage- spotlights on, the area surrounding it dark, faded in bokeh. “Ah, my home”, she sighed as she got up and floated towards it, a frail hand outstretched in its direction. Tracing her finger around the frame, the sound of applause emanated from some undetermined point in the room. Geraldine turned her head all around, trying to find a source. Turning her head back to Ms. Smith-Smythe-Smith-- she wasn’t there. The applause grew louder, lingering. It came from the photo. Geraldine noticed a change, got up to be sure of what she saw. A woman on the stage, looking at home and beaming as flowers were tossed and surrounded her feet.
7/2013
from emily's head 