Are You Jealous (fourth)
Or, he might discover this Willowbrook, Winterhaven, Whitsuntide, Weltschmerz. It seemed a likely neighborhood. The place was imposing, multi-gabled, fronted with many half-concealed entrances. Its wings spread; its portico was like an outdoor showroom of fittings, glass and brass, lantern-chain and sidelight . . . weighty paneled doors, shut. On one, an arrow. The sign, mere insouciant cardboard, hand-lettering done in black marker.
Friends, please join us at the studio!
A second arrow pointed in the opposite direction, indicating parking. With such people, you had, of course, left your car wrong as well. He would give it up, he told himself . . .
But no. Gabriel had noticed, venturing at a creep past the stone pillar, a flash of blue light. Perhaps quiet electronics made an improvement over iron gates. He couldn’t be certain they were not all gathered round the security monitor, back there beyond the barn, exchanging quips while he dithered on their doorstone.
Upon his hosts (whomever they were) he bestowed an Irish blessing. Might fortune so smile on their hospitable home, that ten thousand souls, an ocean of humanity, cross its threshold. Might they one day have cause to spend many happy hours perusing their collection of photos.
The studio, steely smoke-toned glass, and smoky steel-toned framing, had been married by design to its water feature. The studio cantilevered to touch, through the medium of 47 millitimeters of negative space, “defined by the shadow-play of sunlight on water”, the first of a ring of boulders, arranged in a semi-henge. The boulders emerged from a reflecting pool; this, algaecidally clear. One could contemplate the arrangement, one’s experience augmented by reading the structure’s “storyline”, on metal signs embossed with metal words.
Forty-seven = the atomic number of silver.
Silver, whiter than gold.
(copyright 2014, Stephanie Foster)