her fear.
"Hello again," she said, angling away, passing him by.
"Beautiful night," he said. And suddenly, as if he'd uttered an invocation, autumn leaves, which had been scrabbling about the pavement, fell into the restfulness of the dead.
Nettie stopped. "I was wondering -- back at the diner, that wasn't a trick, was it?"
Lenny shrugged.
Nettie drew closer. She rested her hand on the corner of the bench. "If I ask you how you did it, will you tell me?"
"Ask."
She laughed. "What if I don't?"
"You'll wonder about it the rest of your life."
"Did it hurt?"
Lenny's cheek twitched. He tasted bitterness. He wanted to laugh at her question and the razor's edge it skirted. But if he started down that path, he'd not come back.
"Have you ever felt trapped?" he asked.
She glanced up and down the street. "I don't know. Sometimes, I guess."
Lenny displayed his coin. "In the desert, I pried this from a dead man's grasp. He opened his eyes and thanked me." The coin grew heavy. "Would you like to understand?"
Nettie shifted her weight. She drew her fingertip along the bench rail, tracing its path.
In the distance, a dog barked.
"I think I'll pass," she said.
Pass? How could she pass? He held an adamantine coin forged from a chain that had bound Prometheus. Secrets from time eternal lay within her reach. "You don't want to know?"
She shrugged. "Well, I do. I truly do. But like you said, who doesn't like a little mystery in their life?" She stepped backward.
Lenny wanted to reach out and catch her by the wrist. They didn't have to talk about magic. They could talk about the weather. Exchange recipes. He could recite lost poetics or regale her with impossibly true stories. She could ask him anything, anything at all. Or they could just sit in the quiet.
And maybe he could hold her hand.
Silently, she turned and walked away. A block later, she glanced back. She raised her hand waist-high, and gave a small wave. Then she rounded the corner and slipped from the evening's loom.
A cloud passed the moon. It pulled silks of light from the sleeve of night.
Leaves swirled in the street. They swept over the curb and danced about the bench. A single leaf spun free and landed against Lenny's bare ankle. It tick, tick, tickled. Time to go. Time to go.
"Yes," Lenny said, "Time to go."
He stood, brushed himself off, and the leaves scattered.
At the park bench, he shouldered his backpack. At the diner, he propped a book against the door.
At the crossroads, he clapped his hands once and displayed his palms to the moon, the daily rent of his soul -- life itself.
The Quanta of Art
by Adam Colston
Artwork by Jin Han
----
>The man stood on the far side of the gallery, in front of one of my favourite paintings; Gova's
Sensate
-- a wall-encompassing canvas of spiralling reds, blues, and yellows.
Beside him, on the polished basalt floor, crouched a large black dog, its coat glistening like burnished ebony. Silhouetted against the painting, the man seemed like a traveller poised to step through the twisting vortex.
I checked the time.
"I'm sorry, sir," my voice echoed off the marble walls. "The gallery closes in five minutes -- and pets are not allowed."
The dog -- or what I'd thought was a dog -- stirred. A long feline tail uncurled; heavy muscles flexed and bunched across lion-like shoulders as it first stretched, then rose.
It was no dog.
"Mr Chasin," the man said, without turning from the picture, "does not like being called a pet. Eh, Mr. Chasin?"
"No," the beast said -- its voice deep, yet muffled -- as it swung round. "But I am forgiving."
I stepped back, my heart thumping -- it was a panther.
Its lower jaw had been subtlety altered, flexing oddly when it spoke. A ridge of pink tissue nosed through the black fur around the top of its enlarged skull.
Padding silently towards me across the floor -- every inch the predator on the hunt -- its breath rumbled in and out.
"What . . .?"
I stumbled back -- my
"Hello again," she said, angling away, passing him by.
"Beautiful night," he said. And suddenly, as if he'd uttered an invocation, autumn leaves, which had been scrabbling about the pavement, fell into the restfulness of the dead.
Nettie stopped. "I was wondering -- back at the diner, that wasn't a trick, was it?"
Lenny shrugged.
Nettie drew closer. She rested her hand on the corner of the bench. "If I ask you how you did it, will you tell me?"
"Ask."
She laughed. "What if I don't?"
"You'll wonder about it the rest of your life."
"Did it hurt?"
Lenny's cheek twitched. He tasted bitterness. He wanted to laugh at her question and the razor's edge it skirted. But if he started down that path, he'd not come back.
"Have you ever felt trapped?" he asked.
She glanced up and down the street. "I don't know. Sometimes, I guess."
Lenny displayed his coin. "In the desert, I pried this from a dead man's grasp. He opened his eyes and thanked me." The coin grew heavy. "Would you like to understand?"
Nettie shifted her weight. She drew her fingertip along the bench rail, tracing its path.
In the distance, a dog barked.
"I think I'll pass," she said.
Pass? How could she pass? He held an adamantine coin forged from a chain that had bound Prometheus. Secrets from time eternal lay within her reach. "You don't want to know?"
She shrugged. "Well, I do. I truly do. But like you said, who doesn't like a little mystery in their life?" She stepped backward.
Lenny wanted to reach out and catch her by the wrist. They didn't have to talk about magic. They could talk about the weather. Exchange recipes. He could recite lost poetics or regale her with impossibly true stories. She could ask him anything, anything at all. Or they could just sit in the quiet.
And maybe he could hold her hand.
Silently, she turned and walked away. A block later, she glanced back. She raised her hand waist-high, and gave a small wave. Then she rounded the corner and slipped from the evening's loom.
A cloud passed the moon. It pulled silks of light from the sleeve of night.
Leaves swirled in the street. They swept over the curb and danced about the bench. A single leaf spun free and landed against Lenny's bare ankle. It tick, tick, tickled. Time to go. Time to go.
"Yes," Lenny said, "Time to go."
He stood, brushed himself off, and the leaves scattered.
At the park bench, he shouldered his backpack. At the diner, he propped a book against the door.
At the crossroads, he clapped his hands once and displayed his palms to the moon, the daily rent of his soul -- life itself.
The Quanta of Art
by Adam Colston
Artwork by Jin Han
----
>The man stood on the far side of the gallery, in front of one of my favourite paintings; Gova's
Sensate
-- a wall-encompassing canvas of spiralling reds, blues, and yellows.
Beside him, on the polished basalt floor, crouched a large black dog, its coat glistening like burnished ebony. Silhouetted against the painting, the man seemed like a traveller poised to step through the twisting vortex.
I checked the time.
"I'm sorry, sir," my voice echoed off the marble walls. "The gallery closes in five minutes -- and pets are not allowed."
The dog -- or what I'd thought was a dog -- stirred. A long feline tail uncurled; heavy muscles flexed and bunched across lion-like shoulders as it first stretched, then rose.
It was no dog.
"Mr Chasin," the man said, without turning from the picture, "does not like being called a pet. Eh, Mr. Chasin?"
"No," the beast said -- its voice deep, yet muffled -- as it swung round. "But I am forgiving."
I stepped back, my heart thumping -- it was a panther.
Its lower jaw had been subtlety altered, flexing oddly when it spoke. A ridge of pink tissue nosed through the black fur around the top of its enlarged skull.
Padding silently towards me across the floor -- every inch the predator on the hunt -- its breath rumbled in and out.
"What . . .?"
I stumbled back -- my
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