art interaction

There were sirens blaring and smoke fuming. A mother and daughter had watched as a crack opened up in the earth and cars stacked upon each other in a futile attempt at escaping. A journalist took notes on the scene to report back to his boss for a news broadcast later on that night. Only two bodies were pulled out of the wreckage—identical bodies of Frida Kahlo apparently. A piece of flesh was removed from their chests to reveal two beating hearts. The journalist mentally tried to compose himself so that he did not openly get sick in front of everyone. He had to sit down to focus on his notes.

The wreck was too spooky and specific to be just an unfortunate accident. There was a supernatural aura about the entire situation, the journalist noted after a brief interview with the mother and daughter. They told him that they were simply going on a nighttime stroll through the area when suddenly a horrific tearing noise interrupted their time together. The mother had shielded her daughter from the sight of and the actual destruction. The journalist stopped probing for further gruesome details when the mother and daughter both started getting emotional. He thanked them for their time and walked around the stacked, smashed cars and jotted down what he observed.

He remembered when he was a child growing up in Egypt how his life goal was to be a journalist. When he was older, one of the biggest newsworthy stories he captured was that of the Arab Spring. He never felt more accomplished and terrified in getting information from the inside than any story he’d covered before. The journalist knew that the wreck he saw in front of him would probably turn out to be a bigger story since whatever caused this was most likely not of this world. Or if it was, it did not follow the rules here.

He approached the two bodies of Kahlo with a sense of reverence and confusion, partly due to the blaring siren. The still beating hearts frightened him but still he made himself look. He owed the story that much. Besides the bodies, there was something else that didn’t quite click with the whole situation. There was no other signs of life besides the mother, the daughter, and himself. There were no police cars or firetrucks or vehicles of other witnesses.

Where was the blaring siren coming from?

The journalist snapped his head and quickly scanned his surroundings. How did he know to come here? He couldn’t recall driving here. His car was nowhere nearby. Furthermore, he had a day off today. Why was he investigating when it wasn’t his story to cover? He turned around and jumped a little when he saw the girl run over to him.

He backed away slowly. She was begging him to pick her up and comfort her. The journalist incessantly and politely refused despite the small guilt he felt. He kept backing away until he felt intense heat on his back. He heard a loud boom coming from behind him but he didn’t fully process it in his mind. The screams and cries of the unprotected little girl seared into his memory. He heard more booms behind him. He saw the mother grab her daughter and rush her far away from here. The daughter looked at him one last time from over her mother’s shoulder.

The journalist lied face down on the asphalt before forcing himself to flee. He checked around for his notepad to no avail; any evidence of this whole scene was gone. Cars were falling into the crack, which ever so slowly began to close. The bodies were lost in the fire. The siren blared louder than the chaos before him.

A bright light flooded his vision.

Muffled voices surrounded him.

The siren still blared.

As soon as he could see clearly, the journalist made out paramedics and police officers.

They lifted him into the ambulance.

“Relax, sir. You have a major injury on the side of your head. Have you been around any hot environments this evening?” asked a young paramedic.

“Don’t probe him with questions. Let him rest. Besides, there’s nothing around here that could hurt him like this,” advised another paramedic, seemingly older.

“So this is where the siren came from,” whispered the journalist before falling asleep.

VOICE-EDITTED

   It’s 9 am on a Saturday in a small, modern apartment in Austin, Texas. My voice wakes up on their stomach and gasps a little for air since they normally forget how uncomfortable the position is for them. They think about the night before and all the funny moments with friends. It was a nice break from the stressful week of waiting on tables for ungrateful people in a high class restaurant. Their find flashes back to when they and their friend witnessed a couple of drunk college guys steal a newspaper stand. They laugh but now they’re grateful that they can finally have a day to relax instead of run all over the place with a group.

    My voice after such a long time, because any morning requires that much time, rolls out of bed and ironically struggles to properly cook in the kitchen. Being a server definitely offers no ability to cook for my voice. They messily prepare a plate of eggs and biscuits from the Pillsbury Dough Boy brand. Why they never learned how to correctly cook? The world may never know.  My voice laughs mockingly and makes a snarky quip about the meal and eats it anyway. After breakfast, they throw covers over the bed, not even trying to make it look neat. My voice is okay with the messiness in their apartment and only cleans up when expecting company since appearances are important. They throw on a dark t-shirt and some faded, worn blue jeans. They laugh as they see just how messy their hair is in the mirror and makes a silly face to match it.       

   They are a very juxtaposed character since they can be not only comical but also melancholic. On the outside, they can be very sarcastic and they are the kind of person to silently add input in someone else’s conversation and accidentally end up saying it out loud, making it awkward for them and the other people. But deep down, they can be very serious, especially about troublesome memories. 

   As morning shifts into midday, they sprawl out on the couch and read a mystery novel. My voice loves mystery novels because they offer some hope that everything can have some logical explanation. Their mind temporarily drifts to a recent terrible incident with questions left unanswered, but they try to push away the memory and focus on the book. 

   Lunch is a pleasant meal of leftover Chinese takeout from the day before. My voice drifts back into a fantastical daze. Flashes of red and blue lights and faint whines of sirens drown out the outside world. Cries and wails of relatives get louder and louder. Almost immediately they snap out of it when they realized that thoughts of the tragedy intruded their mind. They make a mental reminder that just because not all the facts are present right now, it doesn’t mean they should obsess over it. 

   Often close friends accuse them of being heartless or strange but in reality, my voice is more of a matter-of-fact person with the occasional dash of humor to lighten it. Nonetheless, they’re straight-to-the-point. The day passes along smoothly into evening into dusk and my voice throws on a soft shirt and sweatpants. They lie on the couch captivated by the novel and eventually fell asleep with the book on their chest.

The Raven-POV edited

It was truly a crappy night. The storm was becoming too unbearable even for me to tolerate and I came from the streets! Feathers soaked from all the heavy rain, I beat my wings as fast as I could until I found any sign of shelter. As I was running out of time, I spotted a mansion below me. It was big, roomy, and quite possibly it had some nooks or crannies for me to rest. I’m smarter than the average raven; I understand some people words since, as I said before, I came from the streets and there are a ton of people from my neighborhood. Anyway, I found one word that i was particularly interested in for some weird reason. Nevermore.

I saw a light through the window, so I knew someone must’ve been home. Lightning cracked across the sky and I figured this was my only chance to avoid the worst of the storm. As painful as it was, I hit myself against the door, asking for an invitation to enter. "Please open the door! I don't wanna die out here!" I screamed in my head. After a little bit of time, it opened and my interest piqued as this guy opened it. He really looked like crap. I was only interested since he kept talking to the darkness and then to me once he saw me. Without hesitation, I flew into his fancy-schmancy, rich, white guy home and perched on a stone feminine head. Hey, there wasn't a "Please do not touch the artwork" sign. Besides, a raven's gotta perch when a raven wants to perch.

Well, this dude creeped me out. He kept talking to me. Normally, people would ignore me or try to chase me away (but I usually end up flying to some corner of the house where I know they wouldn’t find me). However, this guy was staring at me and trying to talk with me. This was getting really weird. I wasn’t asking for much. I needed a place to stay for the night until I could get back on my feet. Nothing more.

Anyway, when I finally realized that he was talking and when I also realized I said, “Nevermore,” he asked me if I was leaving. Of course, I was going to leave! Obviously not right away, but I was. I wanted to tell him, “Yes, I will be, but only if this stupid storm ends soon.” Unfortunately for the both of us, I said, “Nevermore.” Great. He kept going off on that.

Then this guy asked me in his weirdly poetic rambling about if he would forget this “Lenore,” whoever she was. I was trying so hard to tell him that I knew nothing of Lenore and I didn't care.  But of course, the only word I said was “Nevermore.” I really felt bad this dude until he decided to yell and get mad at me. It’s not like I had anything to do with Lenore. I wasn't screwing around with her so he shouldn't be mad. Then he begged me for any knowledge of “balm in Gilead.” I didn’t know if it had any deeper meaning since I didn’t understand whether or not it was a reference. I responded with my one-word phrase, hoping that by some miracle it translated as “I don’t understand the reference. Please restate the question.”