Of the Falls.

Written for this week's challenge at cues - paranoia, in forty minutes.

This piece is set in the same universe as histoires, and features Ira and Gabriel.






Of the Falls



Gabriel has never been anyplace where the myth of progress rang so hollowly and perhaps that is why Niagara Falls seems to make him edgy and nervous, like he’s just unraveled some sort of secret and is now going to have to suffer the consequences. He remembers pictures in books of waterfalls and great power-plants made of baroque iron and glass and dreams of tasting negative ions on the air and feeling power everywhere. The reality, however, is stagnation. He catches himself looking over his shoulder and jumping at shadows when he wanders the parks at Goat Island; he finds himself longing to prostrate himself in front of the larger than life bronze feet of Nicola Tesla and whisper an apology.

It is impossible to relax here. All around, he is surrounded by frozen industry and the loss of potential. [It reminds him of her.]

He drives his car down endless streets of empty store-fronts. In the distance are lush green hills made of landfill and clouds of smokestack-smoke being absorbed into the sky. Somewhere nearby is a university tucked away in the shadow of great guardian power-lines, but Gabriel isn’t having any luck in finding it. He parks his car in front of an abandoned bar and wanders adrenaline-fuelled down cracking sidewalks until he finds a business that exists. It is a bookstore.

There are used books upstairs and Gabriel moves from room to room, twitchy and jumpy and restless. Any moment now he expects to find her - absorbed in a dusty volume of Hemingway, twisting a strand of greenish hair absently around one finger. He hears a noise and his breath catches in his chest.

Standing in the drama section is a serious-looking young man, glowingly backlit by the setting sun and a small window behind him. He sets down the copy of Godot and smiles knowingly at Gabriel. “Oh. Oh, I’m not her, she isn’t here, and for that I’m sorry.”

“How did you know?” wonders Gabriel.

“It was in your eyes.” The young man smiles, offers a delicate hand. “Ira Rothchilde. I can help you find her.”