Prophecies of an Exiled Craft

Trollies passing down Front accompanied by the beat of hooves and wheels eventually became a synchronous symphony of cobble keeping time for the tools of workers hanging the walkside canopy for the Poli. And, boy, what a magnificence she was. Set to open in just a few months, it was the largest theatre for miles, and it would finally give Galleria something to do aside from their regular routine of passing each other by, day after day, avoiding the same slumming night after night, getting the same coffee, from the same corner, dropping a bit to the same bum, hounding a roll off the same bench, the same sun-washed scapes sporting shallow promises of what some try to call the next great renaissance… Perhaps a distraction from the spite spoon fed into their senses every day, masked by their own coined motto: “Galleria: Our Heart creates the Smile”.

People were gathered at the common again. Some travelling flea circus had come through town, and it was hard to tell if it was a performance, or a riot.

The train line ran out from Midtown, 47 miles to Galleria. Most people would come into Galleria from Midtown to work, on account of the new factories and railroad jobs. The rest were folks who couldn’t afford to live anywhere else, and made their best staying above the taverns near Galleria’s K2 lot, if they were lucky. The rest made a habitat at the old bottling plant next to the railroad shipping yard. Those who lived in Galleria had a sense of rushed pride, that seemed to follow with a heavy hollowness in their eyes. That would all change though.

“This will be the performance of the century!”

Gay in my mind, clacking on the finishing touches of the script that would first debut upon the Poli’s new stage! Sometimes it helps to be in the wrong place at the right time. Just so happens you’ll swap luggage with a man building a new theatre in the middle of one of the largest cities in the region, next to Midtown that is. That’s where I should have ended up if the train from Shire hadn’t been hijacked that day.

We met on platform #6, along with about twenty-two constables in summer of ‘11. Turns out a playwright and theatre architect make a pretty good duo. That was three years prior. Though, there was this cat, right underneath the conductors platform right before the train left… black with white paws and a white diamond patch right between its eyes. Perhaps it was my imagination… Perhaps something in the sooty air fell into my flask… Thinking nothing more of it, this chap Marcus Levi gifted quite the large in a direct cheque to my name, plus, arranged my stay at a cozy hotel near the Theatre, with most accoutrements one could ever wish to have in one place, let alone Galleria.

“That’s it”

The name, came in my brain as I reminisced…

“Pallasce Moderna!”

Once the mechanical had finished stamping the final type onto the canary cover of what could only be described as my entire soul, the parchment pulled smoothly from the machine’s roller, and I placed the finished script atop my desk, by the spilling candle and feathered scratch, ceiling it with a signature wax stamp.

So, I put a disc on gram and played loud my favorite tune, “Intriguing by H.B. Woelf” and envisioned my message written as a gift, and more, a thanks to the world, and all who could experience such magnificence. After all, these new motion cameras were really something I could get behind, and Levi made a deal for the debut to be reeled. To this day I cannot remember where that disc came from. It just kind of…. appeared in my luggage. It only had its title printed top its black slate, but it was my favorite tune no one had ever heard. Nor could I recognize many of the instruments. It sounded like that Edison fellow was attaching his music rolls on to Ben Franklin’s electric kite wire. And they called me mad. Ha!

But the play! A performance so ahead of its time, written to see and sound in direct relationship with Poli’s grand architecture on a style we could only find to describe as Artisian Deccorrè. This guy Marcus had a keen eye, and come to find out, that’s what they say people were out for. Between friends, Galleria thought the Poli might be a bad influence to their ‘persuasive’ image. I guess it couldn’t have been worse than that, unfortunate bloke, getting his johnson sheared clean off by an orange-hot stray casting down at the Wire.

Alas, through the hotel window, I heard the newsie at the corner of the common. He ran the block (and his mouth) on this side of Front. His uncle the mayor owns the printers that puts the balder in the papers, so, Little Lenny Winder, at least that’s what they called him, also being an actor and all, wasn’t only guaranteed a gig at the Poli, but, everyone here was easily persuaded by just about anything he shouted into their eyes. Well, at least it was excellent advertising for the showcase. I personally tried to avoid him by all means, but, most people that disagreed with him, they kind of just, magically disappeared…. I had my conspiracies sure, but that was just for good fun. A guy knows when to keep his jaw shut. But this guy Lenny though…. always after my secrets. After all, he knew I enjoyed texts on the esoteric, and perhaps, taboo, some might say, and there was a certain, pattern to this place that matched many symbols in my collection of esoterica. Galleria, built top old burial grounds, didn’t help my superstitions either.

He was a character Lenny, once you got caught in one of his monologs, you couldn’t do anything to shut him up, so you basically listened to agree with him, or you’d easily lose six hours out your pocket. Just don’t get too close when he’s talking, unless you want to sample a little of what he ate for lunch.

His wife Esther ran a package store by the train station. Go there to grab a pinch of smoke, and a darling handmade postcard to stamp off to your sweetheart.

Looking out at whatever view that most everyone considered festivities, and Lenny’s antics, provided a fitting, yet scenic narrative until near the turn of the next day. Music coming from the desk behind me, followed by a deep slumber, continued dreams of the official ribbon cutting for the theatre in about a month.

We had just a few rehearsals to go, and near everyone knew their lines. The dancers were all, mostly, on time, and the posters were being printed by Joe down the road.

Worth’s Taylor & Pressing had been finishing up the elaborate costumes, privately hired by Violet B. herself. Best designer in the city.

Her husband Peter built the sets. He couldn’t only build a mansion, but when it came to inventions, just say all bets no one had seen lights move on their own before! Pete sure knew how to chum with the local lathe shop boys.

Forget me, this was the incorporation of some of the greatest craftsmen and women anyone had ever seen, and let’s just say, word got out quick as the Poli neared the final construction stages. People asked what I would do with all the money… I took that as an insult… Money, the lowest gauge of a man’s wealth. If it were me, admission to the shows would be free. That Marcus though, he liked his coin. Generous however, he let me talk him into a quarter bit for balcony seats, half bit for the floor, and 2 bit for the side boxes, that way every soul from Galleria to Shire could experience the beauty to be found here.

Oh the show? You shouldn’t have asked! Well, since you have, it was written as a tribute to the Great God Apollo. Without spoiling the plot, it was a harmonious balance of Music, Dance, Love, Prophesy, Cosmos, Truths, Happiness, Sadness, Healing, and even featured an archery joust on horseback! Nothing like it had ever been seen anywhere else in the world. The script called for an alternate ending depending on the audience’s reaction. A life’s work, say…,modern spellbook, from what my other texts might describe, but a label it could never find. A true celebration of the gift of life. You would have to see it for yourself.

“Who’s There?”

Winked my eyes, sonically jostled awake from sepia dreams;

The drapes rustled on the calm night. Grogging up to look out the window, still open since falling asleep, there was that cat… from the train station… At least it looked like as so… It was a new moon, soot masked whatever light the stars may had shared, and the lampstand by the sidewalk needed a new filament.

Since the milkman was set to deliver tomorrow, I placed what liquid remained in a saucer next to the empty glass, opened a can of tuna, leaving it out for the cat. She let me pet her a bit, then, closing the door and window, went back to bed.

Not the first carriage had gone by was Lenny cocking the day’s crest, louder than usual. Sounded like another festivus found way into town.

After only getting a few more hours sleep, I rolled over, hitting my head on the tableside, and tried stumbling into something decent to see what mattered.

Arranging the contents of the desk I fumbled over waking up, I noticed the cover page of the script had a splash of ink, in a shade not recognized as any of mine, with a rather careless crease somehow carved in the corner.

Looking out the window was a massive crowd assembled at the Poli, ear in mass by Lenny.

I looked out to see the saucer and tuna were completely gone, but the milkman hadn’t come… Going to pick up the empty glass, I saw what looked like a small black binding by the bush under the window, its cover made of an unfamiliar skinne never felt previous, smooth as gritty could be. Atop it, imprints of four intersecting inverted triangles, those imprints lined carefully with gold leafe, filled brown. I quickly flashed through the pages. It simply contained dates, and names. Nothing more.

And looking through the more recent dates, bookmarked by a golden heart-shaped locket, scribed there, my name, the only one circled, in a newly familiar shade. And the strangest thing, is that there were many more pages, all with names and dates into a future millennium at least!

I buried the book, threw on an overcoat and made way to the crowd.

Wretching a paper from a bystander in the back, there it was, bold face the front page, my name had made the headlines:

"GRAND OPENING PLAYWRITE EDGAR E. PARSONS CHARGED WITH SLAYING OF PASTORS DAUGHTER"

Fiz were already waiting with handcuffs.

The show was cancelled, and the theatre swiftly sold.

Being my only alibi a stray cat, I was convicted of murdering Emily Baker for being a witch after they found her ravaged body in the cellar of the Poli.

I felt a gruesome prick to my neck and woke up in a padded room with a Bible. A sick joke. During what felt like a century, I started pretending what it was like living life all over again.

As I lay lone, experiencing in the only thing I could recognize as being a hallucination, that ‘new’ life started 79 years in the future, and the city I lived in, looked eerily like a play I used to dream about.

And as far as everyone, including myself knew, my body perished behind those walls.........