The sun rinsed the wide, ivy-draped stone facade of the Sage Kilt Gallery on Royal Street with rays of futile absolution. Peering out between the swaths of ivy were four tall cathedral-like round-head italianate windows set into the washed white stone work ominously standing guard for the larger-than-life double arched doors. The doors stayed open during business hours, weather permitting, allowing passersby to be drawn into the gallery with the aromatic smells of brown sugar mixed with vanilla and jasmine that were strategically deployed near the entryway for just that purpose. Scent marketing was a new tactic deployed after the recent downfall of the economy drove away gallery goers and antiquity rummagers throughout the city.
Through the doors brick pathways, inlaid between old-world mahogany wood flooring, wound through the large gallery. The wood planks were slightly higher than the brick pathway, but sanded down in a slope from wood to brick in the hopes to keep the patrons on the meandering pathway like a canal shepherding a flotilla up a lazy river.
This proved to be remarkable in keeping the antiques, paintings, and found art, placed gingerly throughout the gallery, safely intact. The pieces were few but poignant, varying in theme with very little in common except for being created by local artists, both starving and not so starving, as well as being devastatingly simple in their complexity, but tremendously deep in their messages.
The paths forked immediately once inside. The left path taking the sightseeing tour past the “Gorbachev,” and then through the maze of inequities and creativities. The right making a direct lane passing the reception and lounge areas, fully equipped with a do-it-yourself espresso machine and fine leather couches, where contemplative thinking hopefully blossomed into checkbook writing. The right path sporadically connected with the maze path at times and ended at a green archway, backlit by golden hues of flames dancing rituals on red brick walls.
The archway, emblazoned with a gaelic verse in golden foil paint: “Ge b’e thig gun chuireadh, suidhidh e gun iarraidh” meaning “who comes uninvited, will sit down unbidden”, gave way to a long but narrow skylit solarium with a hard-packed dirt floor and stucco-backed arches cut into the brick wall. Gas lanterns lighting the way were embedded into each arch carelessly flanked on each side by waves of purple heart wandering jew, Boston ivy, and Spanish moss. It made the patrons feel like they just stepped into the late 18th century. By day, the wandering jew and boston ivy clinging to the walls would soak up the rays from the sun sneaking through the stained-glass ceiling two stories above. By night, the burning lamps created an entrancing scene out of a Tennessee Williams play. This room was an art piece all by itself and was the main attraction that captivated unsuspecting souls.
At the end of the skylit hall was an ornate fountain carved of stone, marble, and wood watched over by a brown and blue nubile Goddess. The fountain was sumptuously adorned, but pure and not overly abandoned of good taste. A small ribbon of water flowed out of the flur-de-lis crested spout into a bamboo panelled catch basin. The water would fill the basin and seep over the top and continuously thread down each bamboo plank falling into the massive polished marble reservoir below. The fountain was the entertainment of the adorable static beauty looking on with lustrous jade eyes inlaid in a subtle yet enthralling bronzed girl perched on one set of the small stair cases disappearing into the ivy, purple heart and honesuckle adorned wall behind each side of the fountain.
The statue of the lolitaesque young woman mischieviously playing in the fountain with her bare foot resting on the edge of the marble basin teasing to dip the pinky toe in the deep water evoked memories of innocent days flirting with watering holes on a scorching southern delta day. She was a polished bronze statue with a lilac tint to her wavy carelessly tossed hair covering a beautiful rounded-heart shaped face looking down over her shoulder into the water below. She wore a blue satin like dress that clung to her body like she had just emerged from the basin and was teasing reentry. Her hands rested close to her uplifted knee, her left a closed fist holding tight the fabric of the dress across her lap pulling the vestiges away from the water and revealing the curve of her supple thigh. Her right cautiously bracing herself against the top of her knee seemingly bracing herself from having too much fun.
A pleated, plaid-green skirted girl, not much older than the perceived age of the fountain's statue, checked the locks on the front doors and seductively walked down the left path to the archway humming a few bars of Jeff Naideau's Heaven on a Half-Shell that was softly playing through the gallery speakers. She turned right and headed toward the fountain gazing into the deep green eyes of the picturesque sculpture looking back at her. She reached up and caressed the face of the bronzed goddess. She brought her hand down gliding across the inanimate full breasts at her eye level and down to the left hand resting below. She wrapped her dainty fingers around the cold brown palm of the statue and squeezed her heat into the work of art seemingly breathing life into it.
With a soft click the fountain's water flow slowed to a stop and the basins began to drain. the last drops of water created gurgling sounds followed by a soft release of a catch that allowed the facade of the fountain to detach a few inches from its position nestled on the wall and a small lever appeared from out of the ivy. She pulled it down and the fountain pivoted on hidden wheels just enough to reveal a curved staircase that vanished into the rafters overhead.
She stepped through the newly formed hole in the wall and up the first stair. She turned back and pulled the counter-lever above her head down to plug the hole in the wall with the fountain once again. A small red light kindled to life and she waited to hear the water start up again singaling the fountain was safely locked into place fully obscuring the hidden secrets of the gallery. She turned back to steel herself quieting the voices in her head. Her eyes opened, head tilted down, pupils fixed up the stairs, and began the ascent to the mysterious loft above.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0NH9lqdvdm
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Wren flew down the stairs and bolted to the door stealing a quick glance at her paltry-nosed mulatto roommate. Victoria stood in the arch of her den wearing a slight pout framed by her short, curly, black locks. She inherited her hair, small nose and tiny stature from her mother. Her father donated his fiery attitude, obsessive tendencies and cooking skills to her. The cooking skills make her easily tolerable despite the opinions she so readily hands out.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO0g2IHhCqa
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As Wren passed, the two roommates locked eyes and passed over each other's bodies in a slow motion replay of years past. The distant sounds of the rising storm mixing with the nocturnal etudes of C’est la Mort by the Civil Wars playing on the turntable in Tori's room, provided a soundtrack to the current time distortion now occurring. The minutes slowed to the beat of the music and the two former lovers checked the boxes of the things they missed of one another. Tori admired her legs floating through the air seemingly floating down the stairs and tip-toeing across the ground. Wren momentarily distracted by the slightly parted collared shirt fastened only by the bottom button. The breeze provided by the open windows caused the flaps of her shirt to sway seductively, teasing the curves of Tori's tear drop inspired breasts. The moment was fleeting but beautiful, Wren could feel her mouth start to imitate the puddles forming outside, the tingles in her lips reminiscent of the lightning from the storm.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcwtgyxZJgn
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Wren exited the loft and found the elevator opened as the previous occupant just departed. She stepped inside as the doors were closing and collapsed against the rail; the smell of moss and subtle rosemary lingered in the air. The pain from the absinthe just hit her like a percussion section knocking around bass drums and cymbals in her head.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl4FOoA9INA
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By the time the doors opened again, three floors below her loft, she was upright and ready for the world with a slight grin beaming from her face. The first things she saw as she stepped off the lift were a spruce tree that grew through the ceiling into the loft above and a narrow path leading to the exit. It was like stepping out into a fantastical dream causing the urge to pinch herself awake every time, and if the pain wasn't still there she would think she was still in a quiet slumber resting on her feather down body pillow. This pain was still there, ever so slightly, but that's what brought her to reality. Thats what gives her the will to carry on.
A little way down the path, a small stream adorned with koi and a few red-eared sliders adjoined her as she continued through the lobby of the loft building bee-lining for the exit. She threaded herself between blurs of people congregating and resting by the faux-ecosystem that inhabited the bottom floor of the five story building. The lighting was reminiscent of the time of day using UV lighting and nocturnal filters to simulate, to the exact second, the sun and moon cycle from the other side of the glass. The ceiling above the stream even had a sprinkler system that randomly simulated a bayou thunderstorm. Ironically, it was a bright sunny day inside and she was flirting with the fake sun as a few rays caught erupted on her transit. As she reached the exit, the sight of rain dancing on the roofs of cars, however innocent and playful to the unsailed person, stopped her in her tracks.
“Never tremble,” the voice in her head reminded her. The sky was crying with droplets of molten fire laced with exploding sparks, at least that was what was seen in Wren’s wide eyes. It wasn’t fear so much as a haunted memory that she just couldn't fully vanquish. With a deep breath, she parted the doors and planted a smile to mask her inner demons as she walked towards the cab by the curb. The rain was more painful to her than most people, like stinging nettles, but she floated on, smile unfaded.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcWmbnrs4Bv
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She found Malik waiting by the curb in his custom 1950 Mercury Tin Woodie. He had pieced it together himself in his dad's garage over the years. The single curbside suicide door of the taxi, installed himself, was already opened waiting on Wren. 659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmJjdf7pk5t
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As Wren approached the taxi cab she witnessed Malik arguing with a young couple huddled under a crowded umbrella through the window of the open car door.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡykYK35HNUK
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"Let me try this again,” he muttered frustratingly under his breath, “This... cab..." making motions encircling the inside of the taxi, "is... off... duty."659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyLL0tdtPku
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"Doodie?!" The asian man questioned his wife. The wife shook her head questionably. "No," turning back to the driver and making a steering wheel in his hands, "taxi to moonwalk." The female of the two finished the exchange with a smile, a nod and hand pounding an imaginary steering wheel of her own, "meep, meep."659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbksVYCVb5t
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Wren interjected with a smile and a "konichiwa" to the seemingly confused couple. The man turned to Wren and spoke in a crisp southern accent, "oh... hi, how ya doin, ma'am?"659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7t3sGWXKjL
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Malik, wide eyed with astonishment and after a gaping pause, started yelling at the couple in frustration, "What the HELL dude. You speak English?"659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgsdp9oAR5f
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Without turning back to Malik, the young asian woman told Wren, "yeah, we were just fucking with your friend here until we saw another taxi.” A resounding awestruck silence could be heard from the front seat of the Woodie. “Hey there's one over yonder. TAXI!"659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtSxNUD2tFA
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As the couple ran off to hail the cab, Wren couldn't help but to smile. Malik was still in shock with his arm on the seat looking back towards the rear of the car as Wren got in. "Hey Mal, what’d I tell ya ‘bout messin’ with the tourists?" She said through obvious giggles.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWybZXXecgn
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Malik turned and started forward. "Yeah copy that. This is a crazy… this town… <sigh> damn crazy."659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfn6O4wAlO2
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As the green Plaid-skirted girl crested the circular staircase, she heard the familiar cry of the 1914 porcelain phone situated atop the vintage 1930's chestnut brown wooden telephone table directly in front of her in an alcove separated from a larger antechamber by two gothic-style ogee arches. Between the arches, the telephone harmonized well with the red velvet tapestry hanging behind it. The white porcelain with flourishes of green ivy on the princess style rotary phone stood out against the mostly unpretentious crimson banner. The cradle on top delicately held a gold leaf embellished porcelain receiver that matched the single gold outline adorning the crescent shaped tapestry.
The girl strode toward the shrilling porcelain phone and folded her fingers around the top rail of the chair adjoining the phone table, eyes planted on the camera pointed at her from above. She breathed two deep breaths counterpunctual to the insatiable screaming of the vintage telephone before picking up the receiver.
"What's your status?" Came the bleak voice on the other end of the line.
"Prep-ping." Said with a bit of an adolescent bounce and a wry smile.
"Any constraints?" The deadpan tone was grating her soul.
"nuh huh."
"Three days."
"We'll be ready, a chroi." A playful whip was added in the gaelic endearment for "heart" that fell deaf on the now silent line. A triggering tone in the key of A signaled the end of the call and the relapse of the girl's inner anger.
She gently placed the receiver on the cradle and let out the deep breath she had been retaining since her last statement. She brushed out her pleats, took a breath in and managed a beaming smile as she sauntered through the left archway into a large cathedral-ceilinged room littered with fine art and antiques, some literally hanging from the rafters. In the center of the room was a near complete circle of different styles and eras of chairs populated by wandering and uneasy, yet determined eyes.
The mood was stuffy and thick in the well lit, spacious secret room overlooking the gallery floor. The redheaded moon beam in the green plaid skirt strode to the back of the room to join the conversation already in progress.
"Honestly... I'm over the grief. I'm over it. I've been over it for years. Now... I'm just pissed the fuck off!659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡk1jUtM3cKq
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"And how are you handling your anger, Daniel?" Penelope muttered in a quiet sarcastic tone.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡlvn45Z36WF
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"Hey, let'em speak, Penny. It's about time we all started getting to the truth around here anyways. Stop bull-shittin' about traffic and gas prices and things that don't mean anything 'bout why we're all here." Silence erupted around the back room of the Sage Kilt Gallery on Royal Street. "We've been sittin' here for weeks and what have we accomplished. I feel worse every day that goes on that justice ain't done!"659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1iviYr1fa8
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The room fell dead for ages after Xavier's rant. 659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxy3UChhYKC
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A deep voice which seemed like it was pulled from the depths of Hell near silently bellowed into everyone's ears, "I want to kill them all. Every damn one of them." The air was collectively sucked out of the room by the ten attendees playing audience to the small man sitting in the back who rarely spoke up. “Every. Fucking. One.”659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuNq0irOsdS
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"That is a very final outcome, my friend," said Haris with two raised eyebrows, the right slightly higher than the left.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkeWPqMPyAP
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"Death is inevitable, but when one takes it upon himself to extinguish the soul of another, there is no coming back." Haris's brother, Adham chimed in.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAED2pKvvrE
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A door from the opposite wall of the arches opened and a tall, dark figure slipped in. He found a chair behind the girl in the green skirt, the last empty chair, and injected himself into it.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡirIHF2aEWw
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"Death is a great adventure, and it's the only outcome I can foresee." The deep voiced man volleyed back.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡY36LpkvOEE
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"All of us have lost someone... something to this. My brother died," The somber voice came from Sage, the green-skirted girl. "He died, and he was the only family I had left. Life stopped to exist for me. I will never be the same. The world will never be the same.... for any of us."659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfFVhRg9mPP
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The emotional outburst drained from Sage's lips as a tanned hand rested on her shoulder from out of the darkness quelling the voice into a fade. He gave a slight squeeze, and brushed the tear from her cheek.
Sage stood and floated with a new found purpose to the open end of the circle.
"Now that we are all here, at least those of us who are left," the look she wore was one of cold determination. "Shall we get started?"
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Below the congregation, The Sage kilt gallery sat waiting to cater to wandering souls and adventurous hearts, it was not just a place for heated conversations. The gallery was adorned with photographs, found art, paintings, and homemade creations crafted by the cream of the crop from the local pool of starving artists. The walls and showcases told stories of decadence, depravity, freedom, abuse, chivalry, sex, jazz, violence, withdrawal, political corruption, and terrorism. 659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXOls0sn2cO
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Each month a different artist is showcased on a singular wall nicknamed the "Gorbachev". Most of the gallery ceilings rose to twenty-four feet high, and the Gorbachev spanned only fourteen feet of that making it the tallest piece in the gallery by far. It was prominently positioned in the center of the gallery spanning eight feet wide but touched no other walls. It was cement, painted with intricate and precisely placed graffiti. The wall was art in and of itself, representing the Berlin Wall, but the words tagged on the wall segments facing the street were of the sounds of silence. "Void, rest, quiet, death, peace, lull, solitude," each letter tagged in a different vibrant color. The side facing the back of the gallery was simply tagged: "We will not be blanked;" each letter black and white and in a different style.659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmu8JFZqWXQ
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This particular month's showcase was a series of photographs from around Orleans and Jefferson Parishes. There were photographs from the Huey P. Long Bridge, the wharfs along the river, Audubon Park, and a porn store out in Kenner accentuating unique architecture. There was a small cluster of four photographs showing parts of ships that were found while floating up the Mississippi River. The last set of photographs were of the alleys of the Central Business District in all its raw, emotional glory. On the bottom center of each photograph were the words: "alpha Sierra whisky".659Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ3uFa0VHRVI
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Vengeful proclamations floated from above emulsifying through the art, antiques, photographs and intermingled with the ghostly voices that haunted the gallery’s halls.
