Bridge
Chapter 3 of Gaze, written by Matt Boothman after Yanahn
Having erupted at his host – or captor, or torturer, or fellow maroonee, he wasn’t sure yet – or simply at his surroundings, and received no reply but echoes dying to silence, Willis Winter had found himself a bridge to sulk on.
His back was bowed, the better to grind both elbows into the stone balustrade. Its height had not been adjusted to scale with his elongated proportions. Keeping his hands clasped, his legs straight, and his ankles and knees together, he strained his neck to pan around the view. It could not have been a comfortable pose to hold, but he showed no inclination to shift. He had made of himself an installation.
What Winter allowed himself to behold of the Tower of Art’s exterior, from this constrained perspective, was, if not elegant, inarguably well wrought; if not beautiful, certainly grand. It stood, still, buttress arms folded, battlements drawn in a proud frown: not defensive, as Winter and his untrained architectural eye would have it, but curatorial. It stood, still; no mere building, but an establishment, enduring.
And yes, there were nudes among the reliefs that made up the facade: but tasteful ones, respectful of their subjects, inviting only admiration, titillating not at all.
Winter had looked long enough; had seen all it was instructional for him to see. The time for brooding was at an end. Ink began to run down from the charcoal sky.
A droplet exploded against Winter’s bald crown. His head fell, suddenly heavy, wrenching his already contorted neck. His scalp skin crackled with cold.
A droplet softly stained the silk of his waistcoat. The garment sagged and twisted like there was a pebble in the lining. Winter’s knees bent under the weight.
A droplet marked the balustrade and obliterated its precisely shaded scrollwork in a blossom of black.
A droplet landed by Winter’s foot. His foot, heavy as lead, plunged through the black blotch into empty void.
Stumbling, Winter made the mistake of looking up. Only instinct saved his camera eye: a wobbling liquid musket ball of blackest ink burst against his shutter eyelid and weighed it shut. His vision shattered into snowflakes. Cold clenched his brain.
Cannonball head lowered, dragging one leaden foot, Winter limped toward shelter. From the centre of the bridge where he’d come to rest, he chose, not the way back to the studio where the light of his medium still strobed in the captured likeness of a hopeful girl, but the way onward, where a promise of firelight glowed in one of the tower’s undiscovered wings. Privately, he cursed the sky; but for fear of having it blackened, he held his tongue.
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