by Andrew Yorke
The movie camera's handler threaded film into its mechanisms and pressed the trigger. Like so many times before, it possessed no idea of what it would capture, nor did it care. Gears and latches worked together, opening, closing, advancing in fractions of a second. Light blinded its vision momentarily. The young woman appeared in its wake.
The movie camera watched the young woman as she walked through a busy courtyard. Men of stature marched in rhythm, holding large, slender objects on their shoulders. The camera noted their nobility. The young woman did as well. She looked at others around them. Occasionally, she tilted her head.
It followed her trek through the courtyard, its handler maintaining a tighter grip than usual. She hardly looked at the camera. The camera minded very little.
The young woman followed the steps of others in front of her towards a large crowd of flying creatures. She did not slow her walk, nor did her body cower. She traded conversation with a few individuals and stepped into the flock.
They flew about her with no hostility. She held out her arms, inviting the creatures to grab on. A few of them did. Some for a moment. Others for a bit longer. No one seemed to mind. One of the flying creatures landed on her head, pushing part of the young woman's hair into her eyes. Her body barely moved.
A suited young man threw seed. A mother and child did the same. A regal building stood in the distance.
A flying creature perched itself atop her head. The young woman, for several grainy moments, morphed into a child. Her mouth spontaneously opened wide. Her teeth glowed in the afternoon sun.
The movie camera noted this. It wished not to reinvent itself again.
With that, its memory was removed.
Uncommon
LAMP POSTS IN LONDON all functioned the same. Interconnected through one source, they stood above all life below. When necessary, they provided warm tones of resonant clarity. Generally at night.
They observed daily repetitions. Children running rampant. Adults in uniforms walking slowly and with authority. Occasionally, a vehicle would throttle past. Adolescents stumbled aimlessly about, prattling of parents, sex, and deviance. The lamp posts felt privileged to never pass judgement on the life below. They only did what was necessary.
One evening, the young woman passed under their glow. They noted her exhaustion and her uncommon features. They concluded that she was not local. While her eyes gradually sank from exhaustion, her face continued moving about. Most others looked straight ahead. She took the opportunity to examine a building in one lamp post's glare. She observed common goods displayed in the windows.
This was uncommon to her.
Her eyes awoke briefly from exhaustion. For reasons unknown to the lamp post above, she glanced upwards. The young woman's hand quickly shielded her eyes. Her mouth slightly opened. She did not pass judgement on it. The lamp post only did what was necessary.
In another evening moment on another side of London, a series of lamp posts watched the same young woman walk with a shorter man. His voice cracked a unique dialect. Both would exchange spontaneous moments of laughter and silence. The lamp posts witnessed this with many other similar pairings. At times, the pairings looked like each other. These two did not.
The young woman and shorter man stopped for a moment. His demeanour became awkward, his voice silenced. The young woman stiffened slightly, her eyes more alert. Quickly but quietly, the young man's face reached up. His feet came from under him, his body toppling into hers. The two fell awkwardly to the ground, the lamp posts never passing judgement on the consequences. Briefly, the young woman felt warmth from above. The lamp posts only did what was necessary.
A day-lit moment in another world of London brought the two together again. The young woman wore white. The shorter man wore black. When departing from the tall, steepled building, their demeanours were collectively relaxed. Men with cameras flickered their lights. The shorter man retreated into public neutrality, with glimpses of happiness in his eyes. The young woman, while slightly tense, displayed her teeth happily. Her world, for a series of moments, filled itself with butterflies.
She glanced up at the lamp posts above. The daylight provided clarity to the world below. Their work was no longer necessary.
Doll
DIFFERENT SPECIES OF BEAUTY PRODUCTS lined counters, shelves, aisles, and bags of all sizes and colours. Each served a specific purpose. One was dedicated to eyes. Another concentrated on lips. There were others emphasising skin, hair, feet, and hands. Their collective job was simple: make a nonexistent world believable.
The cinematic universe required these products to work overtime. Individuals carried them in bags through different worlds and various trailers, unfolding them onto counters, chairs, floors. All were used on countless bodies. Many times, an authoritative figure would dictate which product should be used and how much should be applied. A nonexistent world would become suddenly believable.
A bag of these products made their way to a fabricated apartment in the late hours of a fabricated evening. The young woman sat in a chair, taking direction from an imperious older man. Her body was outfitted with a small, darkly-shaded wardrobe. Her legs and arms bare of fabric. Naked of censorship.
She knew the importance of this role. The picture sprung from literary success full of sordid, rebellious detail. Its story encompassed the lives of three young women. One, an observer, who naïvely dived into the cesspool of invasive cameras and broken promises. Another, the dedicated fighter, who reached the precipice of fame only to fall violently from its edge. Lastly, the martyr, a victim of superficial realities and carnal exploitations. The young woman held this role. It would be the role few would later forget.
She focused on the man's instructions. In the corner of one eye, she noted an individual open her bag of products. The lights above had interfered with those on the young woman's face. She never enjoyed these invasive products. A jar of Vaseline tucked in her purse provided quick escape.
Her eyes received another shade of beauty, her lips again coated, glossy, moist, hinting tenderness. She thought about the immediate tasks at hand during moments such as this. She would internally repeat her directions. She would recite her scripted dialogue. She would remember the small scar on her cheek and worry briefly of unavoidable failure. She then forced a sigh of relaxation. This time, duty must overcome fear.
The young woman took her position in the fabricated apartment. Her back straightened. An image, vapid and complicated, suffused her entire presence. She peered into the mirror in front of her and viewed the world others created. With authoritative direction and careful execution, the nonexistent world was now believable.
To the young woman, a nonexistent world was never believable.
Scent
‘I wonder what it's like.’
THE HOTEL STOOD STRONG through numerous seismic events in Los Angeles. Its lights shone bright through all hours of the night. Only the lives of the rich and famous were allowed through its doors. The rumours of exclusive, wild parties spread like napalm, its surrounding citizenry obsessed with those of superficial importance.
The curiosity of a teenager proved more powerful than control. Days, weeks, and months were spent walking or cycling past this modern castle.
‘So many windows. So many rooms.’
As nightfall supplanted the evening sun, the young teenager again stood across the street. Attitude primed and motivations confirmed; only cowardice disallowed the push ahead.
A gentle evening breeze cruised down the busy avenue.
Adolescent curiosity overpowered cowardice. The teenager launched with the suddenness and grace of a magic bullet. The front entrance, well-lit and frequented, held too many dangers. There was another set of doors on the side, concealed, unimportant, and poorly-lit. Sometimes, a few uniformed individuals would come out for venting and cigarettes. On this particular evening, no one stood nearby.
The young teenager scurried awkwardly between impromptu hiding spots with accid
ental style. Heavy breathing. Eyes transfixed on a flash of light.
An entrance to the room briefly remained open. Eagerness silenced breathing, and the young teenager moved closer to observe what lay inside. Well-dressed individuals walking in a well-dressed manner, smoke billowing from the room. Fine liquor in fine crystal carefully fastened to their hands. Their eyes drunk with privilege and self-worth. The young teenager's stomach dropped through the floor.
The door closed, hastening the push ahead. The air became thicker and muscles tightened. The teenager slowed from fear of the unknown. Eyes refused to blink. An unknown sound penetrated the hallway's ambience and tense muscles quivered.
The door creaked as a young couple exited the room. This was the final jump. Thoughts of trouble and repercussions were no longer important. Consequences of existentialist magnitude were nonexistent to the teenager. Nothing except the room. A brief opening and a slide through the crack, stopping just short of colliding with a man's backside.
A final hiding place in the corner of the room, nested between two man-made obstacles. One could not be seen from here.
The teenager's eyes slowly panned across the room, absorbing the largeness of its milieu. The elegant realism of musicians, movie stars, heroes, and villains joined in laughter. The young teenager even caught sight of four British icons whose music cast a new wave of something radical.
The smell of tobacco and skunks hung in the air. It inundated the senses, resulting in a muffled cough or two. Through circumstance, a whisper of an unknown scent punctured the thick atmosphere. Not perfume, yet still fresh and clean. Like milk and pearls. The young teenager enjoyed its relief, searching for its origin.
Eyes locked into place.
Pupils wide with wonder.
Through the layers of smoke and chatter stood the young woman. Her dress was simple, a solid colour with a sensual complement. Her back was relaxed, her makeup only covering what culture required. A drink rested in one hand and a Tareyton cigarette in the other. She flashed a bitten smile. Casually, she observed the seasoned crowd, noting the smiles of others. Her eyes reflected the exhilaration of an adventurous child discovering something unknown but true.
This was absorbed all too quickly.
The man-made obstacles began to move with the teenager's excitement. The fear of exposure blasted towards the door, head low, escaping with accidental grace. Happenstance allowed the mole to slip away undetected.
As the doors flew open, a swell of emotions was never forgotten. A world once untouchable was touched, and a new creature was accidentally discovered. A creature filled with unknown questions. The teenager's head swam. Nerves became electric. An inner voice lingered.
‘I wonder who she is.’
Insight
THE WHEELS OF THE VEHICLE moved with no real haste. As the city crept by, the young woman unwrapped a box. A growing seed nested comfortably in her womb. She unveiled the contents of the box, and her eyes instinctively blinked into darkness.
Her mind projected wishful dreams.
Eyes opened and the young child witnessed flickers of light. A smile radiated from the young woman, the child's best friend, kneeling at the opposite end of the hallway. The home was lit in sunshine, its air crisp and warm. Lifeless creatures floated in the windows, stirring in the young child wilderness and wonder. Mouth open and eyes wide with curiosity, the child scurried through the spacious hallway. Photos of the past lined the walls. A gentle wind gracefully moved the transparent, ecru curtains. Legs moved like an energetic penguin. Eyes set course on their best friend, the young woman, as she held her arms wide. Her teeth glowed in the sunlight. Gleeful laughter. As the young woman embraced the child, her eyes briefly watered.
Nested comfortably in her arms, their eyes closed.
A birthday befell the child. Candles flickered in celebration. The child gazed into the blaze with infinite curiosity. The young woman took notice, hugging her close. The shorter man stood nearby, holding a small camera and an orderly smile. A gentle kiss on the young child's cheek distracted her. Slightly annoyed but not irritated, she saw the smiles of others around.
His Father.
Her Mother.
Her family.
Their friends.
Their encouragement did not soothe her slight distress of the unknown. The young woman whispered support.
‘I'll help you, honey.’
It was enough. She watched the young woman as they tilted back their heads, exhaling with passion. The lights went out. The cheers could be felt for infinitely childish miles.
Their eyes blinked once again.
The child played in the bathtub ocean, his grin becoming wider with each violent splash. His hands navigated a miniature vessel, eyes transfixed on its yellow port and red starboard. The child heard the turbulent water hit the edges of the tub. To him, these were the sounds of the sea. A sudden stinging sensation clouded his eyes. Fear invaded the child's sense of curiosity. Fighting quickly through the child's tears and uncensored whimpers, the clean water removed the sensation with haste. Once his clouded vision returned, he rediscovered the young woman kneeling by the tub, voicing comfort in worried tones. Her eyes were naked of makeup, her hair defined in a simple ponytail. She leaned in closer, assuring him with smiles and muffled whispers.
The child's eyes blinked rapidly. The young woman felt responsibility overcome curiosity.
The memory progressed, as nightfall enshrouded the windows. Stars shone orderly and distinct. The young woman sat in her chair, rocking slowly and carefully. The walls were thick and blanketed with warm colours and images, blocking the distractions from the outside world. She viewed her environment through tired eyes. Shades of yellow roses lined the window sill. The young child nested in her arms, sleeping in peace.
Her fingertips carefully groomed fine hairs. The blanket wrapped around a fragile body with meticulous comfort. She checked to make sure nothing was bare of its fabric. Noting that all was well, her lips let escape a contented smile. She looked at closed eyes, wondering what dreams the child conjured. She thought of her own dreams. She reminisced of her realities.
She felt her world slow to a gradual halt.
Her eyes instinctively reopened, watching her hands unearth a miniature outfit. She presented the outfit to the small camera in front of her. The camera felt a strange commitment overwhelm the interior of the vehicle. The young woman said many things in that moment. All in the flash of the shutter.
She was a good Mother.
Mankind
THE TELEVISION PERFORMED for its audience. It provided human perspectives of the world in a seemingly limitless number of people and stories. In one performance, a married couple found themselves in troubled times. In another, a cowboy saved a city of fruitful, promising lives from ruin. Some performances portrayed a world filled with chaos and destruction. It would incite the wide range of human emotion.
Tears, cheers, boos, and jeers. Its audience always came back for more.
Individuals milled about in preparation, collecting food on their plates and refreshments in their glasses. Smiles were mostly present, with all other inward and outward conflicts absent. This was not a normal day of absent-minded routines and persistent cynicism. This was a day of nerve-wracking anticipation. It encapsulated a global fear of the unknown.
The television stood mightily on its stage as the audience took their seats. In attendance were elders, adults, and children alike. The young woman took a seat, her nested seed almost ready to sprout. Her mind filled with a familiar childish sensation. All eyes focused on the television, waiting for the crowning performance of its career. When its switches moved, the television coughed out what little static and butterflies remained.
Its performance began.
A moving object, barely discernible, eclipsed by a brilliant sphere. It appeared like a curved white ocean painted on a canvas of total darkness. The audience felt an inner weightlessness. An unavoidable silence lingered as the television
began its dialogue.
‘Eagle, Houston. You're go for landing,’ began a distorted voice.
‘OK. 3000 at 70,’ another voice responded.
‘Roger. Understand. Go for landing. 3000 feet.’
The moving object began its descent into the white ocean. With each passing second, the audience felt swallowed in claustrophobic tension. The young woman rested her hands on the nest. Her eyes felt completely open, her tingling skin a buzz of intensity. The moving object floated closer to the surface.
‘700 feet, 21 down, 33 degrees,’ reported the distorted voice.
‘Pretty rocky area,’ noted another.
Sweat accumulated in the palms of confident men. Butterflies blossomed in the young woman's nest. Her eyes observed small objects in the surface of this ocean. Her curiosity and fear came to a stalemate. An inner voice repeated the same phrase.
‘Let's go!’
The moving object grew closer, the white ocean now more detailed than ever. Holes blanketed the surface, some appearing bottomless. The young woman's hands tightened. A stray hair graced her nose.
Nothing could distract her.
‘40 feet down, 21/2. Picking up some dust.’
The moving object appeared to increase in speed. The holes became larger and darker. Very little could be observed. The audience silenced their breathing. Dust spread like waves in infinite directions, then settled. The moving object was stationary. Shades of grey and black now marked the surface of the lunar ocean.
The room became a breathless void, desperately waiting for resolution. All felt it would never come.
A distorted voice broke the silence.
‘Engine arm is off.’
One more breathless pause. Then from nothing: