Tuesday, May 9, 2017

#9 - The Last Supper

Banks hadn’t known her very well. There was that time when they ran into each other face first, but other than that Banks had nothing. The police were saying that Chambly was depressed, but Banks had always seen her surrounded by friends. They said that Sep was suffering from sort of post trauma from finding the body in the park a year ago-- that he had never recovered from the series of events in the past year. Banks didn’t buy it.
She taped up the last box, and marked the box with the address of the art gallery it was going to.
“You’re not actually moving are you?” Michael asked his head poking into the doorway of #308.
“Yeah you can’t leave. I mean look at this place. It’s a perfect art studio.” Timma said from the couch.
“I’m not moving” Banks insisted “I just need a little trip away for the summer. I was thinking Spain or Italy?” Michael responded with a very pointed look at the several boxed around Banks’s living room.
“Spain or Italy? You’ll never want to come home.” Timma held up her hands in defense.
“Okay Michael, like I said before all of the boxes are going to the gallery. Geez you’re almost as bad as Max and Nathaniel. And Timma my offer still stands if you want to come with me…”
Even though Banks hadn’t known Chamby particularly well, the whole situation had been a major wake up. After all that could’ve been her. A night out being sad, walking into the road without looking, and bam that would be the end of that.
“I mean I have all this money from my dad. I need to do something. Have an experience, you know.” they were all quiet for a moment.
“Go live in the trailer park for a week. That’ll be an experience.” and the moment ended and they were all laughing.
“I don’t know, it just feels like something’s ending.” Michael said resting his cheek against the doorframe. Banks reassured him that nothing was ending but the small pang in her chest said something different.

Wednesday, May 3, 2017

#8 - The Fighting Temeraire

One hour. Michael promised one hour in IKEA. He had finally started calling Banks by her first name and dropped the “miss” all together after several death threats and the threat of tears spilling from her eyes
It was right when they started to leave that the automatic doors closed. The doors closed, no big deal right? They’d just reopen when they got close enough to trigger the motion sensor. Except they didn’t reopen, they wouldn’t budge, and the power flickered and shut off. Michael’s eyes went and Banks shoved on the door. It rattled but wasn’t even close to opening. All around them the residents of Winthrop place began to panic.
Banks wondered for a second if this meant that everyone was in imminent danger. Would people start to turn on each other? When would IKEA turn into the island from The Lord of the Flies or Lost? But nothing really happened. People panicked and yelled, and cried. Michael was a statue, for a solid half hour before he said “excuse me” and walked towards the bed sheets and musical instruments section.
If I’m going to be stuck here I might as well make the most out of things Banks thought. She collected the rest of the chocolate, and some popcorn from the checkout area then headed for the pillow and blanket section. Banks curled up in the blankets and picked out a movie from her i Tunes account to watch until things blew over.
Oddly enough this was a pretty benign thing. And for the first time in months Banks started to feel like herself. She missed her movie nights with Timma, her work shifts with Nathaniel at Jimmy’s, Looking over her art with Maxwell, going out to drop off mail and running into the mail men, and even banging on the wall at in the early morning hours because Michael seriously needed to figure out how sound worked on his piano.
For the first time in a long time Banks didn’t think about being dead or wonder what disappearing would be like. But she thought of art and the future. She thought of how she wanted much more out of life.

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

#7 - The Death of Casagemas

She remembered her father’s funeral clearly. Apparently a year had passed since the call from her step-mother, however since then Banks was so numb that the passage of time wasn’t something that mattered anymore. She didn’t know whether Jimmy’s still held her job, and frankly she didn’t care. Her job with the art gallery had barely gone through, and while there were voicemails piling up from other galleries offering art shows to her, she didn’t answer them. Most days Banks just slept. In a ball, on the floor of her living room. Sleeping hurt much less than being awake. Except for when the hurt entered her dreams, and she woke up sobbing into the floor of her red carpet; leaving dark tear stains. The insurance company had given her mass amounts of money, that now sat in various places collecting interest. But no amount of money could fill the gaping hole that grew in her chest. Her apartment became a grayer version of what it had been before, as the creative blossoming of art slowly faded away to nothingness; just like Banks herself.

Raising of voices
Then total silence occurs
Nothing makes it up

Thursday, January 19, 2017

#6 - The Storm on the Sea of Galilee

Banks, hi honey -- It’s me, your mother. We miss you, your father especially. Elliot told us that you were having an art show in the city. That’s so great! …… Banks…… we, we really miss you. Honey, there’s something I need to tell you, it’s your father, he’s-----

And that’s when she stopped listening. Banks cut the voicemail off and her stepmother’s voice was cut short from finishing her sentence. Banks was sure that her father would be fine no matter what was wrong with him. She looked at her pile of 3 weeks worth of mail. A good third of it was crumpled up from Logos’s harsh remaining hand and angry delivering style. There were five letters from her father and stepmother, more attempts at communication in three weeks than she had gotten in the past year from them.
Banks frowned and tossed the mail onto the table, she ran out of her apartment door and didn’t stop until she reached the pond behind the police station. The few people skating around on the pond didn’t seemed alarmed by Bank’s dishevelled appearance. There were a few couples, and a few loners, but no matter who they were with they seemed to be in their own little happy world. The scene melted the edge of Bank’s emotions.
She sat in the snow and drew the image of the skaters in the snow, using the mud underneath the thin layer of ice as a sort of shading. After a little time had passed a couple walked past the pond and glanced at the edge of the pond. They looked alarmed, and quickly waved the policeman over. There was frantic whispering, and then the policeman’s notepad was out and he was taking notes.
“Excuse me?” Banks asked the one of the women in the couple “What happened?”
“Oh dear,” The woman mumbled, obviously shaken.
“Oh you’ll have to excuse my wife,” the second woman said “There was this little purple mitten frozen in the pond, it’s been there for years, and now it’s gone.” the woman laughed “It’s silly, but we’ve grown quite attached to the mitten, all of the regulars at the pond that is.”
“It’s okay ma’am, we’ll find out what happened” the policeman reassured. Banks wished them luck and quietly excused herself, to wander back home. When she got home she listened to the voicemail again

Banks, hi honey -- It’s me, your mother. We miss you, your father especially. Elliot told us that you were having an art show in the city. That’s so great! …… Banks…… we, we really miss you. Honey, there’s something I need to tell you, it’s your father, he’s sick. Really sick. He really wants to see you. He thinks he’s getting close to the… um never mind. Please call us back. Please.