In the interest of better serving our faithful audience, the producers and staff of this establishment would like to announce that the Port, in lieu of upcoming changes at this time we are not able to allude to, will be striving toward monthly to bi-weekly broadcasts. More than this may be appearing upon your horizon-line at one point or another, but this is the minimum intent. As always, we appreciate your patronage, and look forward to sharing further adventures from distant shores.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Concerning the Opera, and End of Our Tale
The theater was essentially all the physical land held by Kitty Rollins. In the public recollection it almost didn't exist, suspended in a pocket of stowaway time on an old brocade of a street, stones clad in moss and mold. Trying to keep out of the open, Tupelo slunk by the trenches of detritus lining the dark buildings and up the columns to the gaping black doorway. There was no light really, just a short warmth from the glowing city skyline obstinately finding its way through the broken ceiling.
Deep smell of mildew and rainwater, of unbidden flora and the sharp smell of bodily waste. A bird roof ceiling, black abyss fluttering movement of feathers, floor home to unruly cats prowling like starving street kids, zombies. His eyes adjusted, and Tupelo could make out a garish staircase spiraling off into the eaves, only slivers and shadows visible in the night. A cat leapt past from darkness into darkness, to a rustle of wings. Tupelo started.
"She's gone to the bird roof," the Ragamuffin King said behind him. "She'll be silver no more."
He was seated on black crates with a styrofoam cup of smelly hot tea and a mangy velvet top hat. Tupelo started breathing again. The King sipped tea. And somewhere above music started, a scratchy echo 78. The King smiled. "Figaro," he said, pointing a dirty finger to heaven.
"What happens now?" Tupelo asked to music and dust from above.
The King gestured with his cup. "When Kitty Rollins came down here, years ago, that was the song she always played. 'Ecco, Ridente in Cielo.' The Count despairs over the heart of his beauty. Kitty would come here and sing on nights when the fog was rising. She had a voice that could call down angels."
His own was almost wistful. Tupelo listened for a few moments, to Italian tenor and restless pigeons. It was beautiful, in a Gaston LeRoux kind of way.
"What, um, what happens now?" Tupelo repeated.
"She has her spirit," the King said softly. Then he angrily hurled the cup of tea into the darkness. Cats exploded out, crashing over the void, and a great rushing in the wings raining feathers down. Then it was silent again but for the barber of Seville self-aggrandizing to a scratchy orchestra.
"Kitty Rollins is dead," said the Ragamuffin King. "Now she is queen."
Tupelo reached to scratch a cat weaving itself around his ankles. He stood back up, took the shoestring from his neck. "Here," he said, handing over the vial. "I won't need this anymore."
And it began to rain.
And deep in the wet night, on an empty avenue of brick buildings stacked on top of one another, the Shadow Man stepped from the darkness itself, old blankets and ponchos blending with the crumbling brick and rusting black iron. He stopped at one doorway mimicked by so many others, peered briefly down the silent black alley. He knelt on the wet pavement and pulled a little leather pouch from his coats, produced three small coins and a smoky votive candle. He placed these on the step, lit the candle with a Harrah's matchbook, and set a headless rat before it.
And the Ragamuffin King would bilk a few midnight tourists of a handful of dollars with a sleight-of-hand that may not have been entirely misdirection of his fingerless gloves, and whistling "Hail, Britannia" stroll off into the fog rolling over the river bank and becoming his long oil-cloth coat.
--finis--
Deep smell of mildew and rainwater, of unbidden flora and the sharp smell of bodily waste. A bird roof ceiling, black abyss fluttering movement of feathers, floor home to unruly cats prowling like starving street kids, zombies. His eyes adjusted, and Tupelo could make out a garish staircase spiraling off into the eaves, only slivers and shadows visible in the night. A cat leapt past from darkness into darkness, to a rustle of wings. Tupelo started.
"She's gone to the bird roof," the Ragamuffin King said behind him. "She'll be silver no more."
He was seated on black crates with a styrofoam cup of smelly hot tea and a mangy velvet top hat. Tupelo started breathing again. The King sipped tea. And somewhere above music started, a scratchy echo 78. The King smiled. "Figaro," he said, pointing a dirty finger to heaven.
"What happens now?" Tupelo asked to music and dust from above.
The King gestured with his cup. "When Kitty Rollins came down here, years ago, that was the song she always played. 'Ecco, Ridente in Cielo.' The Count despairs over the heart of his beauty. Kitty would come here and sing on nights when the fog was rising. She had a voice that could call down angels."
His own was almost wistful. Tupelo listened for a few moments, to Italian tenor and restless pigeons. It was beautiful, in a Gaston LeRoux kind of way.
"What, um, what happens now?" Tupelo repeated.
"She has her spirit," the King said softly. Then he angrily hurled the cup of tea into the darkness. Cats exploded out, crashing over the void, and a great rushing in the wings raining feathers down. Then it was silent again but for the barber of Seville self-aggrandizing to a scratchy orchestra.
"Kitty Rollins is dead," said the Ragamuffin King. "Now she is queen."
Tupelo reached to scratch a cat weaving itself around his ankles. He stood back up, took the shoestring from his neck. "Here," he said, handing over the vial. "I won't need this anymore."
And it began to rain.
And deep in the wet night, on an empty avenue of brick buildings stacked on top of one another, the Shadow Man stepped from the darkness itself, old blankets and ponchos blending with the crumbling brick and rusting black iron. He stopped at one doorway mimicked by so many others, peered briefly down the silent black alley. He knelt on the wet pavement and pulled a little leather pouch from his coats, produced three small coins and a smoky votive candle. He placed these on the step, lit the candle with a Harrah's matchbook, and set a headless rat before it.
And the Ragamuffin King would bilk a few midnight tourists of a handful of dollars with a sleight-of-hand that may not have been entirely misdirection of his fingerless gloves, and whistling "Hail, Britannia" stroll off into the fog rolling over the river bank and becoming his long oil-cloth coat.
--finis--
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Concerning an Editorial Lull In the Proceedings
We interrupt this broadcast in lieu of pressing developments. The writers and staff of this station are currently engaged in following lost tributaries in search of gold. It is our hope that you will overlook this inconvenience in light of our past service, and stay tuned for future transmissions from lost civilizations. Goodnight Mr and Mrs. America, and all the ships that sail the seas. . . .
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