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The Mural Project
December 4, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Art, Child, Death, Society | by davidbdale | 5 comments
Rain gathers along the edges of flat rooftops, pooling in the depressions, sheeting along the slick flashing until it overfills the bead along the bottom edge and trickles onto the building face, seeping down the freshly-painted surface like a slow waterfall, like time running down, like the red pool spreading on the pavement around another accident. Memorial murals of our departed children, fifty feet, a hundred feet tall, dwarf us. Their stuccoed walls and dedicated lighting are the only new construction here for years. Our children, made famous by bits of quick metal, gaze to the left or right of us, no matter where we stand, at something just beyond us that we never saw coming and could not have prevented. The local way to put it is it serves the kids right for being born here. And it’s surely criminal to live like this. They have no business being here, and nobody can make a case for wanting to. In their memorial poses, the new celebrities are rendered with doomed but hopeful looks like the faces of martyrs. Mural artists compete for the top commissions, not just big walls with clear views but the best stories, too, the subjects who were most vulnerable and haunted, like the children selected for milk cartons. What serious child of these streets could see those serene images lit from above and not think they might be the best shot at a legacy. We tell our children to make their own opportunities, but they know exactly what they have coming. They only hope to be worthy of their walls. In my nightmare they make deals to audition for them. Behind the drugstore, broken streetlight, wear your black cap backwards. My brother will do you after you do me. They’ll paint us a city block.
Copyright © December 4, 2006
Background Figures
November 16, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Art, Boss, Child, Convict, Dream, Museum, Work | by davidbdale | 7 comments
Artists dream, but not as we do. They live in the disassembled mosaic we escape to only in sleep. When they say: I had a dream, they might mean: the teapot told me or: I imagined. When we say: I’ve been dreaming about you, it’s because we’re too timid to say: My fantasy self penetrates and partially devours your fantasy self. Try it. Once should be enough. So I wonder: is this a dream I can share? I was at the office, right, but not the office? More like a gallery? And my boss was a painting? Not the whole painting, just one of the background figures you might not notice if you were listening to those headphones and the audio-guide told you to move along? Which I was? Because it was my boss’s voice over the headphones? And then I realized it was your voice? And that you were my boss? And learning that I tried to quit, but you said I hadn’t begun to do the job you had hired me to do so I couldn’t quit, because quitting implied that the job had failed me whereas it was me who had failed? That the job would have to quit me? So I cut you out of the painting and devoured you? And the guard had me arrested because you can misunderstand the paintings but you can’t eat them, but the judge didn’t want to convict me because his son hadn’t done his job either, the son’s job that is, but the jury was background people from other paintings, and they were unsympathetic because a lot of people had failed to notice them? So I’ve been sentenced to be in a painting where you’ll never find me? And all I want is for you to find me?
Copyright © November 16, 2006
