Cityscape

1.

If you were to walk the streets of the City, take a left here, a right there, and turn down a dark alley (the alley stinking of garbage, strewn with strange bones; if you happen to glimpse the quick flash of yellow eyes, don’t be alarmed; keep walking, but keep your pace brisk), you would soon come to a door painted red, propped open with a milk crate, a door from which you would smell the heady scent of jasmine incense, and hear the voice of a girl. She is telling a story.

There once was a dirt road in a soft, grassy meadow, she says. It stretched down the polite hills of tall grass, all the way to the base of the mountain in the distance…

This again, a boy says. The unmistakable sound of cigarette smoke being pulled into lungs, and let out again with a small cough. You’ve told this story a thousand times, let’s hear something different, the boy complains.

Shut up, for fuck’s sake. A new speaker; this time, a girl with a voice sharp as the edge of a knife. Let her tell it, Gabe, she says.

There, though you could not see it from the best sitting spots, it ran parallel to the stream for a while, the first girl continues. She has a soft voice, pink like cotton-candy, although there is a deepness to it when she mouths the letter ‘o’. It is quite lovely, the way she speaks, like she’s singing.

Then it began to climb the mountain, she says. She interrupts herself to giggle. We’re getting to the good part, she says. You know, the part with the children and the tree and, oh, first the seed, and the colors and everything. Do you guys think the children represent anything? she asks. I think they probably mean, um, maybe that it’s important to hold onto your youth, or…let’s see, maybe it’s the Garden and the children are the First and…something, I’m not sure. But I really do love this story, especially the part with the leaves changing color. I would love a tree with purple leaves, I would…

Fresia, the sharp-edged voice warns, though it’s softer now. Tell the story, ok?

Ok.

You could see that from anywhere in the meadow below: the road took on a gradual incline and meandered up the mountainside, making turns anytime the climb was too great, the cotton-candy voice says. Then, with a little humble triumph, it traveled over the top, and the little trail went off into eternity….

2.

There is a place they call the Borderlands. It is not advised that you walk there alone, or at night. Nightmares abound. Have you ever wondered what happens to nightmares when you wake up? Of course not. No sensible person would. It is not for us to consider.

Here is where you will find the Black Dogs. Here is where you will find the tall tree and the rope. Here is where you will find the men with the missing eyes, and the scars for mouths. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here; for here, there be dragons.

3.

Here is a story.

There is a boy ambling along the sidewalk. He holds a cigarette in his right hand, tosses a crumpled empty pack into the gutter with his left. Although he ambles, his movements are graceful and dangerous; the movements of a predator. From out the back of his jeans, the swishing of a white tail.

A man passes the boy on the sidewalk. The briefest pause. The man is wearing a shiny black suit, and his hair is white, slicked back like it’s been licked. A few more steps, and the man turns. The boy stops. The two face each other on the sidewalk, and their pose is the timeless dance of predator and prey, killer and victim. The boy flicks his cigarette, grinds it out with the heel of his boot.

If you look closely – and you will have time to look closely, as the boy and man are not moving – you will see that they have the same eyes, uncannily green like peacock feathers, and the same sharp cheekbones like warpaint across their faces.

The boy pulls back the hood of his sweater, and rubs his soft cat ears with both hands. A look of distaste crosses the man face.

Who are you? the boy asks.

The man says nothing. His green eyes move left to right, following the swish of the boy’s white tail.

You’re not me, the boy says.

I’m not, the man says.

What are you? the man asks. He spits out the words like they are bitter. The look of distaste again.

The boy says nothing. He looks at the man’s black briefcase, shiny as a beetle.

I think I’m dreaming, the man says.

You’re not, the boy answers. His ears swivel like satellites now, listening.

4.

There are some nightmares you don’t wake up from. These nightmares are called life. This is the City.

5.

If you were to look up, you would see a building reaching to the sky, so high up its silver nose hits the clouds, and, one assumes, continues for miles more. Men have given this building a name, but it does not concern us. Only a privileged few are even allowed to enter the revolving front doors. You will know you’re not invited if the doors simply turn and turn, never spitting you out onto the marble-floored and into the gleaming lobby.

There is a room in this building, hidden somewhere in the Escher hallways and Mobius folds of it, a room you will find on no blueprint, a room that is rarely spoken of by the inhabitants of the building. If they do speak of it – they do so haltingly, in the softest of whispers.

The Ladies have excellent hearing for their advanced age.

If you were to find this room, you would recognize it immediately. You have glimpsed it at the edge of every nightmare. You have smelled it in every hospital. And you’ve met the Ladies, many times.

The Ladies have many names, but they acknowledge none of them. The Ladies are fond of props, so the room is scattered with cauldrons, balls of string, fake beards. They tell stories, and every story begins like this:

Once upon on a time…

Each story is judged for its complexity, its use of metaphor and simile, its ability to move the listener. The Ladies make each other cry, and so this is deemed a successful story. Beware: the Ladies love soap operas; the Ladies love irony.

Listen closely. The Ladies are telling your story.

6.

The tree had grown again, and he could not see her, the cotton-candy voiced girl is saying. She was gone, the girl says, and there is an upward movement to her voice in the sound of the ‘g’, like a fish caught on a hook. She heaves a shaky breath, and the room is silent.

Tell another one, the sharp-voiced girl says. Tell us a story.

6.

You are here. This is the City.