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youtu.be/A6WqvMzRNcQEastern Phoebe

 

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Near Logan Pass, Montana (Glacier National Park)

On Stormy St Piran's Day at Portreath when remaining standing on the slippery rocks while being buffeted by strong winds (don't be fooled by the picture) proved challenging enough, I was quite content with this shot - taken in the late afternoon. There is a touch of burnout in The Pepper Pot (the building on the harbour wall) but I was pleased to get just something from the attempt :)

Model - Ms Faelyn

 

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Faisan vénéré

Turn of a Friendly Card

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Based on a true adventures of a rogue active in the waning years of the 1930’s as discovered in the criminal archives of Chatwick University.

 

Act 1

I begin my tale in the present…

 

That afternoon a soiree was given as part of the purchase price of the tickets for the annual Autumn Charity Ball to be presented later that evening at the manor’s great house. Since I was alone, I just went mainly for the free food and to rub my elbows with the wealthy guests who would be in happy attendance there, and at the Ball. I was alone, but certainly not bored. There was a game I enjoyed playing to pass the time at these affairs that entailed scoping out by their dress and day jewels worn, those ladies whom would be most likely to be wearing the better costumes and sparklers that evening. It often proved to be a most beneficial insight into the actions and mannerisms of the very rich. I walked amongst the cheerful guests, eying one here ( a lady in satin and pearls) and another there( a high spirited girl with a diamond pin at the throat of her frilly silken blouse). It was as I was passing the latter that the friend she had been talking too (dressed like a vamp), bumped up against me. I caught her, steadying her as they both giggled. I didn’t mind, for the lassie’s too tight satin sheath tea dress had been an enticement to hold, and the gold bracelet that had been dangling from her gloved wrist had been a pleasure to observe. I kissed her gloved hand, rings glittering, as I apologized gallantly for my clumsiness. Her eyes were bright, almost as bright as the twin necklaces of gold that hung swaying down pleasantly from between her ample bosom. I left them, moving on to greener pastures, and it was very green, all of it….

 

It was then that I detected another pretty lassie. It was her long fiery red hair with falling wispy curls that first captured my attention. She was wearing a fetchingly smart white chiffon party dress that commanded me to acquire a closer examination. She appeared to be a blithe spirit, seemingly content with just being by herself and roaming about with casual elegance, the extensive grounds of the manor proper. I began to discreetly follow her at a distance. Although she did not wear any jewelry, her manner and the eloquent way she moved is what attracted me the most. It would be very interesting to seek her out later that evening and she what she would have chosen to decorate herself with. I followed her as she sojourned into the depths of a traditional English garden with a maze of lushly green trimmed 8 foot high hedges

 

As I strolled through the hedgerows in her wake I allowed my mind to wander its own course. Suddenly I straightened up, my reverie broken by an epiphany of sorts. I allowed myself to grin and the lady whose enchantment I was swollen up in, at that moment turned, and seeing my beaming smile assumed it was for her and gave me a rather cute nod of her head. I answered in same, as I headed en route to a nearby stone garden bench to allow my thoughts to think through themselves.

 

But before I go on, allow me the pleasure to sojourn and reminisce about an incident that occurred several years prior:

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I was still working unaided in those days, travelling on to a new next quest that would take me just outside of Surrey.

I had just purchased my train ticket and had seen my luggage safe on board when I decided to rest in the lounge, it being some 45 minutes before allowed to enter personally aboard. Being so early the lounge was almost deserted, only one other occupant. I assumed she was waiting for someone on an incoming train due to the fact she carried no luggage. She was obviously well off, well dressed in satins and lace, and her jewels shone magnificently in the dim lights. Especially one of her rings, noticeably lying loosely around a finger, it sparkled with an expensive brilliance. I had seen one like it in a tiffanies store, worth almost 250 pounds. But she did not appreciate the show her jewelry was putting on under the lounge lights, for she was fast asleep.

 

I circled around her, aiming for a seat next to her, eyeing her and her possessions carefully. I noticed her purse had fallen off her lap and lay on the floor. An idea popped into my head, and I picked the purse up, and looked around carefully, before placing my plan into action. But I was thwarted as an older, matronly lady was spotted heading our way. I slipped the purse into my jacket and moved off before I was noticed. Of course she came in and took the empty seat across form the sleeping princess, and soon busied herself with knitting. As the older lady had sat down, not quietly, the wealthy lady stirred waking up at the noise. I went into a corner and sat, waiting. The two ladies soon fell into conversation; the minute’s ticked by excruciatingly slow. Soon I noticed we even had more company.

He was a lad of only fourteen, but with a devilish look about him that marked him a kindred spirit to meself, and his quick eyes were darting about taking it all in as he stood outside the paned glass window.

 

It was as the first announcement of boarding the train that I saw a chance for opportunity to strike.

The older lady folded up her knitting and clinching her bag, bid adieu to her new friend,( befuddled a little by the old ladies constant stream of gossip), and headed to the train. I was twenty steps ahead of her and was standing behind the youth as she left the lounge. I tapped him on the shoulder; he looked around at me suspiciously, and then caught sight of the shilling I was holding in front of his nose. I quickly whispered a few words into his ear on how he could earn it, and his grin spread as he bought into my story. I still held onto the shilling as he darted around and inside the lounge. I watched as he ran up behind the lady, circling her, then running in front of her he tripped over her leg, as she helped him up, her hand with the ring reaching down, he turned and spat onto the wrist and sleeve of that hand, than standing he ran away. Running alongside me, I handed him the shilling in passing as he ran off, disappearing in to the street.

 

I went inside and approached the astonished lady, as she was looking for her purse to get a handkerchief, confused as to its absence, while she held up her soiled hand( ring glittering furiously) in utter disbelief. I approached, catching her attention by the soothing words I uttered to her. I took her hand, unbelieving with her at just had happened, and I as I apologized for the youth of today I produced my own silk handkerchief and starting with her silky sleeve, began to wipe it off, continuing my tirade of displeasure and contempt at what had just occurred to the dear lady as I did so. As I finishing wiping her down, ending with her warm slender fingers, I kissed them, just as the last boarding announcement came over (perfect timing!) I let her go, explaining that I must catch my train. I turned and without looking back made the train just as it was letting off steam before chugging off.

 

I gained my private carriage just as the train began to lurch away. It wasn’t until after the train began its journey that I casually removed my silk handkerchief from my pocket and unwrapped it carefully, admiring up close the shimmering, valuable tiffany ring that was lying inside. I pocketed it, and then remembered the purse. I took it out and examined its contents: coin and notes equaling a handsome amount, a gold (gilded) case, embroidered lacy handkerchief, small silver flask of perfume, and ( of all things)a large shimmering prism , like one that would have dangled from a fancy crystal chandelier. A prism?, I questioned with interest as I examined it. It was pretty thing, about the circumference of a cricket ball, but shaped like a pendulum, it shimmered and glittered like the most precious of jewels. Why she had it in her purse? I couldn’t guess, and I saw no value in it, so I pocketed it and allowed it to leave my mind.

 

As I settled into my seat I began to think of the lad I had just met, I had been right on the money as far as his eagerness for mischief. Actually he reminded me of myself at that age, and I wondered if that lad with the shifty eyes would also turn out to follow the same course I had explored.

 

Which Begs the question, what had I turned out to become. And since I’m still reminiscing

I’ll give little background material about me, hopefully I don’t come across as being too conceited about my self-taught skills..

 

I had never been one to take the hard road, and even at a young age I was always looking for angles, or short cuts to make some money.

Once, while watching for some time a street magician and his acts. I observed a pick pocket working the crowd. He approached a pair of well-dressed ladies in shiny clothes, and standing behind them bided his time and then lifted a small pouch from one velvet purse, and a fat wallet from a silken one, then he moved on. Now both ladies were wearing shiny bracelets, one with jewels. I thought that he could have realized a greater profit if he had nicked one or both of the bracelets first, than try for the contents of their purses. The bracelets’ alone would have realized a far greater profit than what he lifted from their purses. It further occurred to me that by mimicking some of the sleight of hand tricks and misdirection that the magician was using on his audience, it could be accomplished. A hand placed on the right shoulder and as the lady turned right, whisk off the bracelet from her left wrist, and excuse oneself, that sort of thing.

 

So, I practiced (on my sisters, who proved to be willing accomplices to “my game”) and learned to pick their purses and pockets. I than moved onto their jewelry, starting by lifting bracelets and slipping away rings, before advancing to the brooches, necklaces and earrings they were wearing. After I was satisfied at my skill level, I went out and worked the streets. Sometimes using my one sister who was also hooked on what I was doing as a willing partner.

But I found myself still not being satisfied, in the back of my mind I thought there had to be a more lucrative way to turn a profit.

 

I’d found my answer when an attractive lady in a rustling satin gown zeroed in on me while I was “visiting” a ballroom. She was jeweled like a princess right up to the diamond band she wore holding up her piles of soft locks like a glimmering crown. The more she drank, the closer she got and I decided that her necklace would definitely help pay my expenses more than the contents of her purse (although I had already lifted the fat wallet from her small purse), and I did have very expensive tastes to pay for. So I took her onto the dance floor.

 

I was amazed at how easily I had been able to open the necklace’s clasp , slipping it over her satiny shoulder, lifting it off and placing it safely in my pocket with almost no effort. Then she decided to be playful once the song ended and brushed up against me. She felt the necklace in my pocket and before I could act she had her hand in and pulled it out.

 

The silly naive twit thought I was teasing her and told me that for my penance I had to go up to her suite in order to put it back on for her. I kept up the charade as best as I could.

 

And that’s where we ended up. A little bit of light fondling began as I placed the necklace back around her throat. I began to tease her, plied her with more and more alcohol as I tried to keep my distance, and virginity. Finally she passed out in a drunken stupor, but not before I had learned where she hid her valuables by suggesting she should lock her jewels up for the night..

 

With her safely unconscious, I began to strip her clean off all her jewels, reclaiming the necklace first. Then I visited all her jewelry casket and began looting it. I even took her small rhinestone clutch with the diamond clasp; of course I already had liberated its small wallet.

 

When I’d left her lying happily asleep in bed, still in her satin gown( the only item left to her that shined), I knew I had found a much more profitable line of “work”

 

So I began making circuits around to the haunts of the very rich, I still kept may hand in pickpocketing, so to speak, but centered only on those “pockets” containing mainly jewelry. I also began to carefully explore new ways of acquiring jewels” in masse”, so to speak.

 

Soon I had accumulated many tricks and tools, having them at my disposal to put into action once required, and for the remaining years up till the present had managed to live quite comfortably off of the ill-gotten gains using them allowed me to acquire.

 

Which brings me back to the train ride, my prism, and the rest of my background story before I retun to the present tale. Please be patient.

*****

So, anyway, I reached Surry without any further incident and disembarking, made my way out to the large country house where I would be staying to take a short rest, vacation if you will. But, pardon the play on words, for there is never any rest for the wicked, is there?

 

I had become acquainted with a servant of the old mansion ( almost a small castle, really) , that was about a mile off. I managed to learn a great deal, and soon found myself, on the pretense of visiting her, exploring the grounds. There was to be a grand ball taking place a couple of weekends away , and the maid had filled my ears with the riches that would be displayed by the multitude of regal ladies making an appearance. I began to think about trying to make a little bit of profit from my vacation. I am not sure how the idea developed, but the prism that I still had in my possession, came up centrally into my plans.

 

Late on the evening of the regal affair, I snuck over, covered head to toe in black, with my small satchel off tools by my side. I set up a candle behind an old stone ivy covered wall in a far corner of the rather large and intricate English garden that surrounded the inner circle around the mansion. I than strung the jewel-like prism in front of it. Standing behind the wall, I would strike the prism with a long stick I was holding whenever I observed sparkles emanating from silkily gowned ladies walking in the distance, solitary or in pairs. The prism would flash fire, sort of like a showy lure being used when fishing in a crooked trout stream. Only I was fishing for far sweeter game than trout. My objective was to trick certain types of jeweled ladies (scatterbrains some may call them) by luring them down onto the path beyond the wall, using their natural curiosity to my advantage.

 

I had at least two strikes rise up to my lure in the second hour.

On was a pretty lady in flowing green satin number, decorated with plenty of emeralds, which, hidden in the shadows, I observed were probably paste. I let her wonder about; as she looked and played with the shiny toy, remaining hidden until she grew bored and wandered off.

The second was a slender maiden wearing a long sleek black gown with long ivory silk gloves. I had never before seen a lady so decked out in jewels, literally head to toe. With the exception of the rhinestones adorning her heels, the rest of the lot was real, so valuably real that I could feel my mouth salivating at the thoughts of acquiring her riches. Now in Edwardian times only older, married ladies would be allowed the privilege of wearing a diamond Tiara. But in these modern times, it had become culturally acceptable for any well-to do lady, single or otherwise, to wear one out in society. Even so, they were still rarely worn, and seldom seen outside the safety of large gatherings. But there it was, a small, delicately slender piece of intricate art that glistened from the top of her head like some elegant beacon. That piece alone was probably worth more than I had made all the last four months combined!

I began to skirt around in the shadows, placing myself in position to cut off her retreat. Her diamonds blazed as she approached, eyeing the swinging prism with total concentration. Which was unfortunate, because as I was about to leave the shadows, she walked into the thorns of a rose bush, screeching out, and attracting the notice of a pair of gentlemen who had just crossed the path quite a ways off, called out when they heard the commotion. She started to become chatty with them, obviously coming on to her rescuers, my prism all but forgotten. Than before I knew it, in a swishing of her long gown, she was gone, “swimming” off before I was able to set me ”hook”.

 

Which I was able to do on the third strike, almost an hour later, just as I was beginning to ponder wither I should call it off and head back home..

 

They were a pair of young damsels in their young twenties. They may have been sisters, or cousins at the least. I still remember how my heart leapt into my throat as they observed my colourful prism and turned down the old flagstone path. I had not seen anyone out and about for some time, so I knew they would be no would be rescuers around to come to their aid

And, best of all, they were both dressed for the kill!

One, the blonde, was clad in a black velvet number that one could cannily describe as quite form fitting. As were the small ropes of pearls that hung from all points of interest, pretty with a matching pricelessness.

But her cousin, as I will refer to her, out shone black velvet quite literally.

This one, a stunning raven haired beauty, wore a long streaming gown of liquid ivory satin. A diamond brooch sparkled as it held up a fold of the gown to her waist. The fold allowed her to show a rather daring amount of a slender bare calf. The brooch was not paste, but a real jewel that had been added for the nights festivities ( To be successful, one learns to read these signs accurately) Her ears and neckline were home to a matching set of pure white diamonds. A wide diamond bracelet graced a bare right wrist ,so she must be left handed I instinctively thought, an observation that would have aided me if I were planning on having a go for slipping the bracelet from her wrist, but tonight I was planning a much more daring attempt to empty the entire jewel casket, so to speak.

 

They went to the prism, playing with it a bit, I had begun to circle around, when I noticed black velvet pointing out with multiple ringed fingers, to something further down the path past the wall.

 

With a clicking of heels I let the pair pass, they apparently wanted to see what was on the other side of the wall. I followed; it was not hard, because the necklace the raven haired one wore, diamonds fully encircling her throat, rippled and sparkled from their perch, caught in the full harvest moon’s cast, giving me more than enough light to shadow them quietly .

 

After a while they caught on that something/someone was following them, but as they turned they could see nothing. I was in black, and hooded, invisible to them in the shadows of the trees. They whispered amongst themselves, now worried, realizing that there were dangers lurking beyond the pale, in their case, the safety of the gardens , especially for ones decked out as they were. They then turned and headed right back from where they had come, right into my waiting arms.

 

It is interesting what good breeding does for young, poised ladies. For, as I stepped out of the shadows, a finger of my right hand to my lips, my Fairborn in my left hand, its black blade glinting wickedly in the moonlight , they did not scream out or shout for help. Instead the pair merely let out small gasps, and then they both, in a quite charming synchronized display of disbelief, place each one hand over their open mouths, and the other upon their perspective necklaces.

 

And as I flourished my wicked looking Fairbairn–Sykes blade in their direction, they unquestioningly reached around and undid those pretty necklaces, tremblingly handing them out to me, like actresses following a well-read script. I took the little pretties and after stuffing them into my satchel, held out again my free hand, my fingers beckoning. Not a word was spoken between us, as the frightened pair of young ladies began removing their shimmering jewels and added them in a neat little growing pile along my open palm. The raven haired girl even undid her brooch without me having to command her to do so. Once I had stashed it all away, I motioned for them to turn back around, than with a little helpful prodding on my part, they began moving forward back down the hill, away from the garden. The one in white hobbling a little now as she kept tripping over the hem of her dress, now no longer held up by the stolen brooch.

 

After we had traveled about 200 meters I had them stop, and take off their high heels. Then picking the pretty things up, I motioned them to turn back around and made them walk back the way we had come in their bare feet, watching the pair awkwardly hobble barefooted down the wooded path. They would be quite a while on their journey back, allowing me more than ample time to make me escape. I threw their shoes off to the side and went briskly the other way, reaching the place was staying at , gaining my room without notice. But not before I had hidden the jewels inside an old stump to retrieve them at a later date. I never really heard so much as a whisper of the incident, other than from the pretty lips of my friendly maiden. The wee hours of the morning before my early departure for the train station found me revisiting the stump and retrieving my satchel and its precious cargo. After hiding it all in a false bottom of my case I laid my head on the pillow and drifted off to sleep as I wondered what had happened to the little prism, marveling at how useful it had ended up proving to be.

 

So, how does this story (journey rather) relate to the one I had already started? Please read on, and enrich your curiosity… my dear readers.

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Act 2

 

So, with apologies for my lengthy elucidation, but I now return you back to the garden party I was now attending on that warm fall day. But, as you will see, my prism story needed to be told in order to add a bit of flavor to what was about to unfold.

 

As I sat on the garden bench I formulated my plans. I should be able to acquire the main piece tonight at the Ball, I would have time this afternoon to retrieve my ever handy satchel and its array of tools and have it hidden at the spot I had already selected. It was perfect, located at the end of the path I had found, or rather the charming lady in the smart chiffon dress had found for me. A gas lamp would provide adequate light for my “lure”, and it led to a back wood where I could lead any victims away and liberate them of their valuables before making my escape. I rose, just enough time to walk my escape route, before setting up and then be dressed for the evening’s festivities. I looked around, I was alone now, my lady in white had disappeared, following her own course, whatever it may have been.

 

The Autumn Ball that evening was in full swing by the time I arrived. Being a cool fall day, most of the women were wearing long gowns and dresses, and that, for whatever the reason, usually meant they were decked out with more layers of jewelry than say , if it had been the middle of summer. In order to put my plan in action I need and intrinsic piece of the trap, a prism. The one I had once had was long ago lost, a minor pawn in a game to take a pair of princesses.

 

I knew exactly the type of prism required for my plan, and so began mingling amongst the guests with that in mind.

 

I started out by walking through to the chamber like ballroom where a full orchestra was starting to play. The first person I saw from the garden party was the little tramp who had been wearing the too tight satin tea dress. That dress had been replaced with a long silky gown, her gold jewelry replaced with emeralds; including a thin bracelet that had taken the place of the gold one that she had so obligingly dangled in my larcenous path. I decided to avoid her In principle, and in doing so spied someone quite interesting.

 

That someone was a pretty lady in a long velvet gown standing off to one side, idly watching the many dancers out on the floor. The dancing couples were forming an imagery of a rainbow coloured sea of slinky swirling gowns and with erupting fireworks of sparkling jewels, ignited by pair of immensely large chandeliers that hung over the dance floor, setting them off. I made my way, skirting the dance floor to reach her, my eyes on her jewels, which were making pretty fireworks of their own. I happened to walk up just as a waiter with a tray of drinks was passing by. Plucking off a drink I offered it to the lady with one hand, my other hand placed on her back as If to steady myself. She laughed prettily, and taking the drink I met her eyes, as she was focused on reaching and holding the glass in her slippery gloved hand, mine was on the ruby and diamond necklace. My hand behind her had flicked open the simple hook and eye clasp of the antique piece and was in the process of lifting it up and whisking it away from her throat. As I said a few words to her, I pocketed it, while also taking in the rest of her lovely figure and its shiny decorations, before biding adieu. She smiled, her pale bare neckline now quite glaringly extinguished of its fire.

 

It was about an hour later, after spotting, but unable to make inroads with several likely candidates, that I finally struck gold (figuratively). It came in the form of a young couple arguing between themselves in a far corner of the chamber. She was lecturing a rather handsome man in a tux, her jeweled fingers flying in his face. If she hadn’t been moving about in such an animated fashion as she lectured, I may not have even noticed her. But as it happened I did, especially noticeable was the sanctimonious lady’s wide jeweled bracelet that was bursting out in a rainbow of colorful flickers as her hand was emphatically waving, as her long gown of silk swished around with every movement she made. Perfect. I watched for a bit, and sure enough they moved off, the man heading for the patio leading outside, the wealthy girl following him, still giving him lashes with her tongue. I moved and managed to have her bump into me simply by stepping on the hemline of her long gown. For a few seconds I was the one on the receiving end of her wrath, but I took it like a man, I could see in the eyes of her tongue lashed husband, that he was grateful for the respite. I was also grateful; grateful for the quite wide, very shimmering, bracelet that I had removed from her wrist and now was residing in my pocket.

 

I began to leave the patio, but was stopped by a matronly lady in ruffles, laces and pearls, her breath heavy with alcohol. She started to question me on what the couple had been on about. Then without waiting for an answer she launched herself into a tirade of her own, her gem encrusted, silken gloved fingers, waving in my face for emphasis. It was almost ten minutes before I was able to make my escape. Which I did, but not before slipping off one of the lecturing ladies vulgarly large cocktail rings.

 

I headed onto the patio; the time was getting ripe for my plan, which I was now ready to put into motion, now having acquired its most essential piece. I went to the end of the large patio, weaving in and out of the by now well liquored guests whom had assembled there. Across the way I saw a lady tripping over her own gown. By the time I reached her she had fallen down, giggling merrily. Two of us rushed to her aid, she was busy gushed her thanks to the rescuer she knew, while ignoring the one she didn’t! Which was unfortunate on her part, for by ignoring me, she also was ignorant of the fact that I was busy lifting the small stands of black pearls from her wrist. I left unnoticed, much like a shadow fading out of the light, or at least that’s how it seemed. Finally I reached the patios outer edge without further incident, or gain. I went on the grass and turned a corner with the intention of going, post haste around the house to reach the gardens by the long way, hoping not to be seen by anyone. But I no sooner turned the corner, when I realized that it was not to be the case.

 

It was my blithe spirit in white chiffon from the garden party, pardon me, soiree. She was unescorted, looking up at the moon above a stone turret with one lit window, so intently that my presence had not been noticed. I had been absolutely correct in my observation of her as far as what she would be wearing for the evening. For what she had lacked in ornaments at the soiree, she had more than made up for in the evening festivities. She was absolutely gorgeous, resplendent in as beautiful a silvery satin gown that I had ever witness. It was just pouring down, shimmering along her delightful figure. Her long blazing red hair was still curling down and free, but now a pair of long chandelier earrings cascading down from her earlobes, were peeking out every now and then as they swayed with her every movement. Her blazingly rippling necklace was all diamonds, dripping down the front of her tightly satin covered bosom, twinkling iridescently like an intensively glimmering waterfall. Her slender gloved wrists were home to a pair of dangling diamond bracelets that were almost outshone by her many glistening rings. All in all she was quite a lure all too herself

 

I came up to her, starling her from her reverie. Taking up her hand, I looked into her startled, suddenly blushing face. I complimented her on the fine gown she wore. She thanked me, and I could see I that she suddenly remembered she me as the chap who she thought smiled to her in the garden. She seemed to accept my compliment quite readily. I chanced it( although Lord knows I was short on time) and asked her to a dance. I did not think she would agree, so it was with a little bit of surprise, hoping she would politely decline and walk off, leaving me free to go about my business unobserved. But she accepted, and I will admit that my heart leapt as she agreed (although in the back of my mind I knew I should be off if my plan was to work). The music had stopped so we made small talk as we slowly walked back to the ballroom. Her name was Katrina. It seems she was waiting for someone, which suited my plans, but he was late and so she had time. Which may have sounded dismissive, but from the apologetic way she said it, it was anything but the sort.

 

The orchestra started to tune back up as we entered, and taking her offered hand up, was soon lost in the elegance of my appealing partner. It was a long dance, and a formal one, but I could tell she was subtly anxious to be off on her meeting, as I was to be off to my own adventure. But Katrina did not really allow it to show, which was very uncharacteristic of her someone with her obvious breeding. So I was ready when the by the end of the music she begged her condolences and took flight. I watched her as she fluidly moved away, her jewels sparkling, all of them. On her mission to meet Mr. X I thought, for whom I was already harboring a quite jealous dislike. I should be off I thought to meself.

 

But I stood, still as stone; totally mesmerized by the way Katrina’s swirling silvery satin gown was playing out along her petite, jewel sparkling figure. It wasn’t till the last of her gown swished around a corner out of sight that I moved, but not without having to shake my head to clear the thoughts of her out of it. Well old son, focus. For by now the guests were starting to wander a bit afield in the waning hours of the Autumn Ball, and my small window of opportunity was closing fast. If my little plan was going to have any chance of success it would have to be now.

 

I walked out and made my way to one of the outside exist of the garden wall. Reaching into my pocket as I did so, fingering the bracelet, now cold, that had belonged to the quarrelsome lady,and soon would be playing another role, far from one its former mistress would ever have dreamed off. I also felt my new acquisition, still warm from my dance partner’s body. I will admit that I had felt a twinge of regret for taking it from a lady I had found to be most charmingly captivating. But slipping off the diamonds up and away from her throat had been as temptingly easy as it had been automatic. I had advantageously made use of the sleekness of her scintillatingly silky gown, and with the distractions created by the movements of the dance, successfully managed to keep Katrina’s attention safely diverted from the reality of why my fingers were ever so gently, caressingly sliding along her slippery gowns neckline. The truth was I had originally placed my hand there because it had felt so right, and I was a little startled when my fingers had subconsciously started playing with her necklaces clasp. Before I knew it, they had flicked open the gemstone clasp of her obviously expensive diamond necklace, and had lifted up. As I watched out of the corner of my eye, almost like I was a spectator, as opposed to being the perpetrator, I saw the chain move up and over her shoulder; its diamonds sparkling with is as the necklace disappeared from view behind her back.

It was a favored technique that I had perfected to the point that by this stage of my career I nearly always acquired my objective. But, as odd as it sounds, I was not happy with myself on this occasion.

 

But I did not long dwell on my mixed feelings on taking the charming lass’s diamonds, for by now I had reached my place of ambush. It was in one of the farthest reaches of the garden, at a bend on the end of a long path that, with a gas lamp at its beginning just off the patio, would allow me to see from some distance off. Behind me was a break in the hedge wide enough for a person to walk through comfortably. It was here, off a tree limb, underneath a second ornate cast iron gas lamp, which was now lit, that I hung the shimmering bracelet that I had sought out and acquired for just that reason

 

I walked around and saw that it could be seen flickered off in the distance from the woods, Perfect! Earlier I had hidden my satchel with a hood and knife and bit of rope in the hollow of an old tree. I now retrieved them, and after getting ready, found my position and waited. At 10 minutes past the first hour of my wait, with nary a single glimpse of anyone, I started to fidget. My corner may be just a bit too desolated I was beginning to admit to myself. It seemed that most of the guests were staying by the patio. I was starting to think that I should pack it in, possibly rejoining the guests for one last parting( of someone from her Jewelry). I was just reaching down to pick up my satchel when I suddenly saw something flash under the gas lamp at the beginning of the path, and my senses immediately perked up. I watched as the wisps of rich shimmery satin moved closer, I stiffened, drooling with anticipation, the game was afoot.

  

I could see clearly the flickering jewels she wore, and by their blazing sparkles of rippling fire, I knew that my long vigil would not have been in vain. As the lady drew I recognized her gown of silvery satin! I knew who was making those tantalizing flashes of appealing treasures. Katrina!

 

I watched as she approached, in all her glittering elegance. My heart and conscious was in turmoil, but I knew I probably would not get a second chance. I could not let her get away unscathed. Beside, from the shock of being confronted with a masked scoundrel wielding a wicked blade, she would be in no shape to recognize her assailant. She stopped, apprehensively looking back towards the bright lights of the Manor, Then turning back I saw she had a self-satisfied smile creeping upon her face. She reached up, and undoing her hair, shook it down, curls of softness cascading down, hanging loosely down. It was as she performed this provocative act, that I saw her eyes open wide in curiosity; she had spied my pretty little “prism”. The charming fish was hooked.

 

I waited, watching her approaching ever closer to fate, and from my concealment, I basked in her glow. My heart beating fast, my adrenaline pumping, for the remaining jewels (I thought of her necklace in my custody) that she possessed I already had witnessed were quite valuable. She passed my hiding spot and went to the hanging, shimmering object. As she reached up, looking around, she failed to see me approaching in the shadows. I came up from behind, jabbing a finger in her back as I reached her, I gruffly in no uncertain terms, snarled for her to freeze and make no sound. She stiffened under my touch, but made no move or outcry. I went around; pointing my knife in her direction, looking into her sad doe wide eyes as she realized what was going to happen next. She was trembling; from fear I guessed, and knew I had her right where I wanted. As I made my demands upon her, gimme them jewels sister, she, not surprisingly, was very compliant in giving them up to me. She reached for her necklace last, and looked entirely shocked to find her throat bare, as she searched the neckline of her gown I saw her look into my hand, now dripping with her precious jewelry, almost as if to see if she had not already removed it. She looked apologetically into my eyes, startled; almost pleading that she didn’t know what had happened to it. I just played dump. She than spoke for the first time, sir, may I ask to keep my purse? Her words would have instantly melted even the coldest chunk of ice, I looked down at the little silvery clutch hanging from her arm on its rhinestone chain, I nodded, indicating that she could, and saw relief wash over her face. I told her she now needed to turn around and walk off into the woods ahead of me. She hesitated, and I told her no harm would befall her, I had no intentions along those lines.

 

About 5 meters in I stopped her, and had her remove her shoes, as she bent over to undo the high heels rhinestone clasps I watched her gown tightly outlining her figure. She tripped on the hem of her gown, and as she attempted to keep her balance, accidently let her purse slip off her shoulder. Without thinking I reached down to pick it up for her as she tried reached for it simultaneously

 

The small purse was far heavier than it should have been. Curious I opened it, finding that it contained a rather extensive array of mismatched jewelry, glittering in unbelievably expensive fire . I looked into Katrina’s horror struck eyes dumb founded, as she looked guiltily into mine. The gig was up. The jewels belonged to the lady of the manor, my muse in silver was a thief, a female version of me very self.

 

Aye, what’s this than luv? I questioned her as she looked into my eyes, hers large with a mixture of fright and disbelief. She melted before me, fainting, I caught her in my arms, and it was no ruse. I held her as she came to, holding her warm, silky figure lovingly to mine. I did not know what to think. Nor could I ever explain what possessed me to do what I did next. As she came to, her eyes opened, and I removed my mask, looking back into them deeply.

 

Oh, she gasped, I’m glad it was you, startled that she had said the words out loud. She than started to coyly blushes, quite demurely. Something sparked in me, and unless she was an incredibly good actress, it did also for Katrina. Our eyes both looked into the others, melting away in the lust of the moment. We embraced, deeply, and I held her squirming warm slick figure tight in my enveloping arms. I looked over her shoulder, eyeing the glistening bracelet hanging from its branch. To catch a thief, the thought suddenly opened in my mind, what a great title for a novel I thought to myself, as I buried my nose into Katrina’s luxuriously soft hair.

 

We talked for a bit, walking off into the woods, then she looked into my eyes again, a coy, look that melted me on the spot, and that was the end of it, we embraced again, and wholly gave ourselves to one another. What about your man I asked suddenly remembering, my man she questioned , than oh, you mean the Lord, I was waiting for him to come down from smoking in his tower study, that’s where the lady’s jewels are kept. She broke into an Irish brogue as she said the last bit, and that I guessed was her natural tongue. she laid a hand on the side of my face, thanks for being jealous though, me lad.

I should collect my lure I said, which made her smile; it was such an enticing smile at that. We started to head back and watched as it dangled in front of us flickering. With a far off look in her green eyes, Katrina spoke as if in deep though.

 

The daughter of the house, she has a bracelet on like the one you have dangling, a bracelet of diamonds that I had taken a fancy to, wishing it had been in the safe along with the rest of the ladies of manors jewelry. I knew who she was talking about. The one in green taffeta I asked? Aye lad, that’s the one. Actually her necklace would be just as easy, and worth more I said. Just then her bright green eyes gleamed, Give me about a half an hour, she told me, we will put your little lure to use again. She noticed my hesitation, don’t worry luv she said soothingly placing a gloved hand to my cheek, no longer was it sparkly with its stolen bracelet and rings. I’ll leave my purse with you, can’t very well be carrying it around now can I? I nodded my consent, my mind burning with the thoughts she had alluringly placed there.

  

She turned, and then hesitated; turning back she said I probably should not go back in naked luv. I smiled, reaching in I pulled out her necklace and placed it around her throat. With a little gasp she blurted, so it was you, I was wondering who and when it had happened. It’s not the first time I’ve had me jewels lifted, but it’s a bloody annoyance to have to let them get away with it, crawls under my skin to have pretend not to notice so that I don’t draw any attention to me self before making my move to steal the posh ones jewels.

 

But you, mister, I never felt as much as a prickling. I was ready to assume my pretties had been a victim of a broken clasp this time. I gave a little nod in acceptance. That wasn’t exactly a compliment lad, she said in what I hopped was a subtle jest. Just last summer some clumsy bugger slipped of me earrings, my favorite pearls, as we were danc… she stopped, seeing the guilt in my eyes. Men! As thieves you are all of the same skin she spat out angrily, or attempted to sound angry, for the look in her eyes to me she wasn’t. I best be off, before I change me mind about out little endeavor.

 

With that she swirled around on her heels, and started off, but not before turning and giving me an extremely coy look of interest. As she swirled back around I heard her say loud enough for my ears, I’ll learn me self to be a picker of pockets, see how males like to be taken advantage of in their vulnerabilities! She nodded to herself as she said it. Then suddenly she stopped, than twirled on her heels, her gown swirling enticingly along her figure. Looking me dead in the eye she said, “Vie ne est pas d'attendre que la tempête , mais d'apprendre à danser sous la pluie” !

 

What does that mean? I questioned in a low voice, perplexed.

 

Maybe, Mon Cheri, someday I will tell you… And with that she turned on her heel, her gown once again swirling about, and went, determinedly, swishing her way back up the path. I just watched. I had never heard anyone speak French with an Irish Brogue and I had found it to be rather provocative!

 

I watched as she swished and swayed her way back through the hedge and regained the path leading back to the manor. Her plan was simple; she would lead the daughter of the house to my corner and as she had done, go out with her to look at the swinging charm. I would then make my appearance, rob both ladies of their finery, and telling the daughter to wait until I released her friend, walk off with Katrina as a hostage, and we would both take off and make good our escape. A simple plan, so simple it should actually work.

 

So, there I was. Holding a purse with a small fortune in jewels, my pocket full of more jewels worth an additional pretty farthing, and her charms were wearing off by her leaving. And my thieving nature coming back, reawakened from the spell they had been under!

 

The devil of my conscious crept out on my shoulder, the angel markedly absent from the other.

 

Look mate, she may not be all she seems, and possibly has some other game in mind. Maybe she does have a male confidante helping her out… and was actually on her way to fetch him. He said in my inner ear. And, after all, you took her diamonds twice, didn’t ye now? Do you really think shell forgive you of that me lad?

 

And there is no honor amongst thieves, as the saying goes, he added as a closing argument...

 

I rolled it over in my mind…I could leave, absconding with it all, book a cruise to the states or down under where there lay untried fertile grounds to ply my trade. Not to mention working over my fellow passengers aboard the cruise ship while they attended the fancy affairs that were always going on, or so the brochures always seemed to show……

 

Then In the distance I caught a wisp of Katrina’s long silvery gown. She was coming, and not only with the daughter of the manor, but also with a spare. For I could see a purple coloured gown swishing alongside with the prey in rustling green taffeta.. I watched as all three ladies, resplendent with the rippling fiery gems they all possessed, came up the path, gowns sweeping out , shimmery from the now misty distance.

 

The thought of making my escape with all the loot continued to haunt me, there was still time now to take off without notice, or I could rob all three, and leave with purple silk as my hostage, Katrina would not be able to say anything on chance of giving up her part of the game, or I could just be a good lad and sty with the script that Katrina had written. Take a chance, roll the dice and believe that she was all she had me believing she could ever be.

 

As they came closer I knew my time was running out. The thoughts of just looking out for myself kept coming up playing the devil with my conscience as the precious seconds ticked away…

 

No honor amongst thieves…

What will it be, old boy I challenged myself,

What will you have it be?........

To see what his decision ultimately was, and the eventual path it led to, see the album question answered)

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Life is not about waiting out the storm, but about learning to dance in the rain.

Vie ne est pas d'attendre que la tempête , mais d'apprendre à danser sous la pluie .

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Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives

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No Part of this can reprinted, duplicated, or copied be without the express written permission and approval of Chatwick University.

 

These photos and stories are works of fiction. Any resemblance to people, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

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Walk in the park

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A series of AI-generated pictures of Sigourney W. in different art styles.

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Gilbert Scott-Heron (April 1, 1949 – May 27, 2011) was an American soul and jazz poet, musician, and author, known primarily for his work as a spoken-word performer in the 1970s and 1980s. His collaborative efforts with musician Brian Jackson featured a musical fusion of jazz, blues, and soul, as well as lyrical content concerning social and political issues of the time, delivered in both rapping and melismatic vocal styles by Scott-Heron. His own term for himself was "bluesologist", which he defined as "a scientist who is concerned with the origin of the blues". His poem "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised", delivered over a jazz-soul beat, is considered a major influence on hip hop music.

 

His music, most notably on the albums Pieces of a Man and Winter in America in the early 1970s, influenced and foreshadowed later African-American music genres such as hip hop and neo soul. His recording work received much critical acclaim, especially for The Revolution Will Not Be Televised. AllMusic's John Bush called him "one of the most important progenitors of rap music", stating that "his aggressive, no-nonsense street poetry inspired a legion of intelligent rappers while his engaging songwriting skills placed him square in the R&B charts later in his career."

 

Scott-Heron remained active until his death, and in 2010 released his first new album in 16 years, entitled I'm New Here. A memoir he had been working on for years up to the time of his death, The Last Holiday, was published posthumously in January 2012. Scott-Heron received a posthumous Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award in 2012. He also is included in the exhibits at the National Museum of African American History and Culture (NMAAHC) that officially opened on September 24, 2016, on the National Mall, and in an NMAAHC publication, Dream a World Anew. In 2021, Scott-Heron was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, as a recipient of the Early Influence Award.

 

Gil Scott-Heron was born in Chicago, Illinois. His mother, Bobbie Scott, was an opera singer who performed with the Oratorio Society of New York. His father, Gil Heron, nicknamed "The Black Arrow," was a Jamaican footballer who in the 1950s became the first black man to play for Celtic Football Club in Glasgow, Scotland. Gil's parents separated in his early childhood and he was sent to live with his maternal grandmother, Lillie Scott, in Jackson, Tennessee. When Scott-Heron was 12 years old, his grandmother died and he returned to live with his mother in The Bronx in New York City. He enrolled at DeWitt Clinton High School, but later transferred to The Fieldston School, after impressing the head of the English department with some of his writings and earning a full scholarship. As one of five Black students at the prestigious school, Scott-Heron was faced with alienation and a significant socioeconomic gap. During his admissions interview at Fieldston, an administrator asked him: "'How would you feel if you see one of your classmates go by in a limousine while you're walking up the hill from the subway?' And [he] said, 'Same way as you. Y'all can't afford no limousine. How do you feel?'" This type of intractable boldness would become a hallmark of Scott-Heron's later recordings.

 

After completing his secondary education, Scott-Heron decided to attend Lincoln University in Pennsylvania because Langston Hughes (his most important literary influence) was an alumnus. It was here that Scott-Heron met Brian Jackson, with whom he formed the band Black & Blues. After about two years at Lincoln, Scott-Heron took a year off to write the novels The Vulture and The Nigger Factory. Scott-Heron was very heavily influenced by the Black Arts Movement (BAM). The Last Poets, a group associated with the Black Arts Movement, performed at Lincoln in 1969 and Abiodun Oyewole of that Harlem group said Scott-Heron asked him after the performance, "Listen, can I start a group like you guys?"[18] Scott-Heron returned to New York City, settling in Chelsea, Manhattan. The Vulture was published by the World Publishing Company in 1970 to positive reviews.

 

Although Scott-Heron never completed his undergraduate degree, he was admitted to the Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University, where he received an M.A. in creative writing in 1972. His master's thesis was titled Circle of Stone. Beginning in 1972, Scott-Heron taught literature and creative writing for several years as a full-time lecturer at University of the District of Columbia (then known as Federal City College) in Washington, D.C. while maintaining his music career.

 

Scott-Heron began his recording career with the LP Small Talk at 125th and Lenox in 1970. Bob Thiele of Flying Dutchman Records produced the album, and Scott-Heron was accompanied by Eddie Knowles and Charlie Saunders on conga and David Barnes on percussion and vocals. The album's 14 tracks dealt with themes such as the superficiality of television and mass consumerism, the hypocrisy of some would-be black revolutionaries, and white middle-class ignorance of the difficulties faced by inner-city residents. In the liner notes, Scott-Heron acknowledged as influences Richie Havens, John Coltrane, Otis Redding, Jose Feliciano, Billie Holiday, Langston Hughes, Malcolm X, Huey Newton, Nina Simone, and long-time collaborator Brian Jackson.

 

Scott-Heron's 1971 album Pieces of a Man used more conventional song structures than the loose, spoken-word feel of Small Talk. He was joined by Jackson, Johnny Pate as conductor, Ron Carter on bass and bass guitar, drummer Bernard "Pretty" Purdie, Burt Jones playing electric guitar, and Hubert Laws on flute and saxophone, with Thiele producing again. Scott-Heron's third album, Free Will, was released in 1972. Jackson, Purdie, Laws, Knowles, and Saunders all returned to play on Free Will and were joined by Jerry Jemmott playing bass, David Spinozza on guitar, and Horace Ott (arranger and conductor). Carter later said about Scott-Heron's voice: "He wasn't a great singer, but, with that voice, if he had whispered it would have been dynamic. It was a voice like you would have for Shakespeare."

 

In 1974, he recorded another collaboration with Brian Jackson, Winter in America, with Bob Adams on drums and Danny Bowens on bass. Winter in America has been regarded by many critics as the two musicians' most artistic effort. The following year, Scott-Heron and Jackson released Midnight Band: The First Minute of a New Day. In 1975, he released the single "Johannesburg", a rallying cry for the end of apartheid in South Africa. The song would be re-issued, in 12"-single form, together with "Waiting for the Axe to Fall" and "B-movie" in 1983.

 

A live album, It's Your World, followed in 1976 and a recording of spoken poetry, The Mind of Gil Scott-Heron, was released in 1978. Another success followed with the hit single "Angel Dust", which he recorded as a single with producer Malcolm Cecil. "Angel Dust" peaked at No. 15 on the R&B charts in 1978.

 

In 1979, Scott-Heron played at the No Nukes concerts at Madison Square Garden. The concerts were organized by Musicians United for Safe Energy to protest the use of nuclear energy following the Three Mile Island accident. Scott-Heron's song "We Almost Lost Detroit" was included in the No Nukes album of concert highlights. It alluded to a previous nuclear power plant accident and was also the title of a book by John G. Fuller. Scott-Heron was a frequent critic of President Ronald Reagan and his conservative policies.

 

Scott-Heron recorded and released four albums during the 1980s: 1980 and Real Eyes (1980), Reflections (1981) and Moving Target (1982). In February 1982, Ron Holloway joined the ensemble to play tenor saxophone. He toured extensively with Scott-Heron and contributed to his next album, Moving Target the same year. His tenor accompaniment is a prominent feature of the songs "Fast Lane" and "Black History/The World". Holloway continued with Scott-Heron until the summer of 1989, when he left to join Dizzy Gillespie. Several years later, Scott-Heron would make cameo appearances on two of Ron Holloway's CDs: Scorcher (1996) and Groove Update (1998), both on the Fantasy/Milestone label.

 

Scott-Heron was dropped by Arista Records in 1985 and quit recording, though he continued to tour. The same year he helped compose and sang "Let Me See Your I.D." on the Artists United Against Apartheid album Sun City, containing the famous line: "The first time I heard there was trouble in the Middle East, I thought they were talking about Pittsburgh." The song compares racial tensions in the U.S. with those in apartheid-era South Africa, implying that the U.S. was not too far ahead in race relations. In 1993, he signed to TVT Records and released Spirits, an album that included the seminal track "'Message to the Messengers". The first track on the album criticized the rap artists of the day. Scott-Heron is known in many circles as "the Godfather of rap" and is widely considered to be one of the genre's founding fathers. Given the political consciousness that lies at the foundation of his work, he can also be called a founder of political rap. "Message to the Messengers" was a plea for the new generation of rappers to speak for change rather than perpetuate the current social situation, and to be more articulate and artistic. Regarding hip hop music in the 1990s, he said in an interview:

 

They need to study music. I played in several bands before I began my career as a poet. There's a big difference between putting words over some music, and blending those same words into the music. There's not a lot of humor. They use a lot of slang and colloquialisms, and you don't really see inside the person. Instead, you just get a lot of posturing.

 

— Gil Scott-Heron

 

In 2001, Scott-Heron was sentenced to one to three years imprisonment in a New York State prison for possession of cocaine. While out of jail in 2002, he appeared on the Blazing Arrow album by Blackalicious. He was released on parole in 2003, the year BBC TV broadcast the documentary Gil Scott-Heron: The Revolution Will Not Be Televised—Scott-Heron was arrested for possession of a crack pipe during the editing of the film in October 2003 and received a six-month prison sentence.

 

On July 5, 2006, Scott-Heron was sentenced to two to four years in a New York State prison for violating a plea deal on a drug-possession charge by leaving a drug rehabilitation center. He claimed that he left because the clinic refused to supply him with HIV medication. This story led to the presumption that the artist was HIV positive, subsequently confirmed in a 2008 interview. Originally sentenced to serve until July 13, 2009, he was paroled on May 23, 2007.

 

After his release, Scott-Heron began performing live again, starting with a show at SOB's restaurant and nightclub in New York on September 13, 2007. On stage, he stated that he and his musicians were working on a new album and that he had resumed writing a book titled The Last Holiday, previously on long-term hiatus, about Stevie Wonder and his successful attempt to have the birthday of Martin Luther King Jr. declared a federally recognized holiday in the United States.

 

Malik Al Nasir dedicated a collection of poetry to Scott-Heron titled Ordinary Guy that contained a foreword by Jalal Mansur Nuriddin of The Last Poets. Scott-Heron recorded one of the poems in Nasir's book entitled Black & Blue in 2006.

 

In April 2009, on BBC Radio 4, poet Lemn Sissay presented a half-hour documentary on Gil Scott-Heron entitled Pieces of a Man, having interviewed Gil Scott-Heron in New York a month earlier. Pieces of a Man was the first UK announcement from Scott-Heron of his forthcoming album and return to form. In November 2009, the BBC's Newsnight interviewed Scott-Heron for a feature titled The Legendary Godfather of Rap Returns. In 2009, a new Gil Scott-Heron website, gilscottheron.net, was launched with a new track "Where Did the Night Go" made available as a free download from the site.

 

In 2010, Scott-Heron was booked to perform in Tel Aviv, Israel, but this attracted criticism from pro-Palestinian activists, who stated: "Your performance in Israel would be the equivalent to having performed in Sun City during South Africa's apartheid era... We hope that you will not play apartheid Israel". Scott-Heron responded by canceling the performance.

 

Scott-Heron released his album I'm New Here on independent label XL Recordings on February 9, 2010. Produced by XL label owner Richard Russell, I'm New Here was Scott-Heron's first studio album in 16 years. The pair started recording the album in 2007, with the majority of the record being recorded over the 12 months leading up to the release date with engineer Lawson White at Clinton Studios in New York. I'm New Here is 28 minutes long with 15 tracks; however, casual asides and observations collected during recording sessions are included as interludes.

 

The album attracted critical acclaim, with The Guardian's Jude Rogers declaring it one of the "best of the next decade", while some have called the record "reverent" and "intimate", due to Scott-Heron's half-sung, half-spoken delivery of his poetry. In a music review for public radio network NPR, Will Hermes stated: "Comeback records always worry me, especially when they're made by one of my heroes ... But I was haunted by this record ... He's made a record not without hope but which doesn't come with any easy or comforting answers. In that way, the man is clearly still committed to speaking the truth". Writing for music website Music OMH, Darren Lee provided a more mixed assessment of the album, describing it as rewarding and stunning, but he also states that the album's brevity prevents it "from being an unassailable masterpiece".

 

Scott-Heron described himself as a mere participant, in a 2010 interview with The New Yorker:

 

This is Richard's CD. My only knowledge when I got to the studio was how he seemed to have wanted this for a long time. You're in a position to have somebody do something that they really want to do, and it was not something that would hurt me or damage me—why not? All the dreams you show up in are not your own.

 

The remix version of the album, We're New Here, was released in 2011, featuring production by English musician Jamie xx, who reworked material from the original album. Like the original album, We're New Here received critical acclaim.

 

In April 2014, XL Recordings announced a third album from the I'm New Here sessions, titled Nothing New. The album consists of stripped-down piano and vocal recordings and was released in conjunction with Record Store Day on April 19, 2014.

 

Scott-Heron died on the afternoon of May 27, 2011, at St. Luke's Hospital, New York City, after becoming ill upon returning from a trip to Europe. Scott-Heron had confirmed previous press speculation about his health, when he disclosed in a 2008 New York Magazine interview that he had been HIV-positive for several years, and that he had been previously hospitalized for pneumonia.

 

He was survived by his firstborn daughter, Raquiyah "Nia" Kelly Heron, from his relationship with Pat Kelly; his son Rumal Rackley, from his relationship with Lurma Rackley; daughter Gia Scott-Heron, from his marriage to Brenda Sykes; and daughter Chegianna Newton, who was 13 years old at the time of her father's death. He is also survived by his sister Gayle; brother Denis Heron, who once managed Scott-Heron; his uncle, Roy Heron; and nephew Terrance Kelly, an actor and rapper who performs as Mr. Cheeks, and is a member of Lost Boyz.

 

Before his death, Scott-Heron had been in talks with Portuguese director Pedro Costa to participate in his film Horse Money as a screenwriter, composer and actor.

 

In response to Scott-Heron's death, Public Enemy's Chuck D stated "RIP GSH...and we do what we do and how we do because of you" on his Twitter account. His UK publisher, Jamie Byng, called him "one of the most inspiring people I've ever met". On hearing of the death, R&B singer Usher stated: "I just learned of the loss of a very important poet...R.I.P., Gil Scott-Heron. The revolution will be live!!". Richard Russell, who produced Scott-Heron's final studio album, called him a "father figure of sorts to me", while Eminem stated: "He influenced all of hip-hop". Lupe Fiasco wrote a poem about Scott-Heron that was published on his website.

 

Scott-Heron's memorial service was held at Riverside Church in New York City on June 2, 2011, where Kanye West performed "Lost in the World" and "Who Will Survive in America", two songs from West's album My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. The studio album version of West's "Who Will Survive in America" features a spoken-word excerpt by Scott-Heron. Scott-Heron is buried at Kensico Cemetery in Westchester County in New York.

 

Scott-Heron was honored posthumously in 2012 by the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences with a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award. Charlotte Fox, member of the Washington, DC NARAS and president of Genesis Poets Music, nominated Scott-Heron for the award, while the letter of support came from Grammy award winner and Grammy Hall of Fame inductee Bill Withers.

 

Scott-Heron's memoir, The Last Holiday, was published in January 2012. In her review for the Los Angeles Times, professor of English and journalism Lynell George wrote:

 

The Last Holiday is as much about his life as it is about context, the theater of late 20th century America — from Jim Crow to the Reagan '80s and from Beale Street to 57th Street. The narrative is not, however, a rise-and-fall retelling of Scott-Heron's life and career. It doesn't connect all the dots. It moves off-the-beat, at its own speed ... This approach to revelation lends the book an episodic quality, like oral storytelling does. It winds around, it repeats itself.

 

At the time of Scott-Heron's death, a will could not be found to determine the future of his estate. Additionally, Raquiyah Kelly-Heron filed papers in Manhattan, New York's Surrogate's Court in August 2013, claiming that Rumal Rackley was not Scott-Heron's son and should therefore be omitted from matters concerning the musician's estate. According to the Daily News website, Rackley, Kelly-Heron and two other sisters have been seeking a resolution to the issue of the management of Scott-Heron's estate, as Rackley stated in court papers that Scott-Heron prepared him to be the eventual administrator of the estate. Scott-Heron's 1994 album Spirits was dedicated to "my son Rumal and my daughters Nia and Gia", and in court papers Rackley added that Scott-Heron "introduced me [Rackley] from the stage as his son".

 

In 2011, Rackley filed a suit against sister Gia Scott-Heron and her mother, Scott-Heron's first wife, Brenda Sykes, as he believed they had unfairly attained US$250,000 of Scott-Heron's money. The case was later settled for an undisclosed sum in early 2013; but the relationship between Rackley and Scott-Heron's two adult daughters already had become strained in the months after Gil's death. In her submission to the Surrogate's Court, Kelly-Heron states that a DNA test completed by Rackley in 2011—using DNA from Scott-Heron's brother—revealed that they "do not share a common male lineage", while Rackley has refused to undertake another DNA test since that time. A hearing to address Kelly-Heron's filing was scheduled for late August 2013, but by March 2016 further information on the matter was not publicly available.[69] Rackley still serves as court-appointed administrator for the estate, and donated material to the Smithsonian's new National Museum of African American History and Culture for Scott-Heron to be included among the exhibits and displays when the museum opened in September 2016. In December 2018, the Surrogate Court ruled that Rumal Rackley and his half sisters are all legal heirs.

 

According to the Daily News website, Kelly-Heron and two other sisters have been seeking a resolution to the issue of the management of Scott-Heron's estate. The case was decided in December 2018 with a ruling issued in May 2019.

 

Scott-Heron's work has influenced writers, academics and musicians, from indie rockers to rappers. His work during the 1970s influenced and helped engender subsequent African-American music genres, such as hip hop and neo soul. He has been described by music writers as "the godfather of rap" and "the black Bob Dylan".

 

Chicago Tribune writer Greg Kot comments on Scott-Heron's collaborative work with Jackson:

 

Together they crafted jazz-influenced soul and funk that brought new depth and political consciousness to '70s music alongside Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder. In classic albums such as 'Winter in America' and 'From South Africa to South Carolina,' Scott-Heron took the news of the day and transformed it into social commentary, wicked satire, and proto-rap anthems. He updated his dispatches from the front lines of the inner city on tour, improvising lyrics with an improvisational daring that matched the jazz-soul swirl of the music".

 

Of Scott-Heron's influence on hip hop, Kot writes that he "presag[ed] hip-hop and infus[ed] soul and jazz with poetry, humor and pointed political commentary". Ben Sisario of The New York Times writes that "He [Scott-Heron] preferred to call himself a "bluesologist", drawing on the traditions of blues, jazz and Harlem renaissance poetics". Tris McCall of The Star-Ledger writes that "The arrangements on Gil Scott-Heron's early recordings were consistent with the conventions of jazz poetry – the movement that sought to bring the spontaneity of live performance to the reading of verse". A music writer later noted that "Scott-Heron's unique proto-rap style influenced a generation of hip-hop artists", while The Washington Post wrote that "Scott-Heron's work presaged not only conscious rap and poetry slams, but also acid jazz, particularly during his rewarding collaboration with composer-keyboardist-flutist Brian Jackson in the mid- and late '70s". The Observer's Sean O'Hagan discussed the significance of Scott-Heron's music with Brian Jackson, stating:

 

Together throughout the 1970s, Scott-Heron and Jackson made music that reflected the turbulence, uncertainty and increasing pessimism of the times, merging the soul and jazz traditions and drawing on an oral poetry tradition that reached back to the blues and forward to hip-hop. The music sounded by turns angry, defiant and regretful while Scott-Heron's lyrics possessed a satirical edge that set them apart from the militant soul of contemporaries such as Marvin Gaye and Curtis Mayfield.

 

Will Layman of PopMatters wrote about the significance of Scott-Heron's early musical work:

 

In the early 1970s, Gil Scott-Heron popped onto the scene as a soul poet with jazz leanings; not just another Bill Withers, but a political voice with a poet's skill. His spoken-voice work had punch and topicality. "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" and "Johannesburg" were calls to action: Stokely Carmichael if he'd had the groove of Ray Charles. 'The Bottle' was a poignant story of the streets: Richard Wright as sung by a husky-voiced Marvin Gaye. To paraphrase Chuck D, Gil Scott-Heron's music was a kind of CNN for black neighborhoods, prefiguring hip-hop by several years. It grew from the Last Poets, but it also had the funky swing of Horace Silver or Herbie Hancock—or Otis Redding. Pieces of a Man and Winter in America (collaborations with Brian Jackson) were classics beyond category".

 

Scott-Heron's influence over hip hop is primarily exemplified by his definitive single "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised", sentiments from which have been explored by various rappers, including Aesop Rock, Talib Kweli and Common. In addition to his vocal style, Scott-Heron's indirect contributions to rap music extend to his and co-producer Jackson's compositions, which have been sampled by various hip-hop artists. "We Almost Lost Detroit" was sampled by Brand Nubian member Grand Puba ("Keep On"), Native Tongues duo Black Star ("Brown Skin Lady"), and MF Doom ("Camphor"). Additionally, Scott-Heron's 1980 song "A Legend in His Own Mind" was sampled on Mos Def's "Mr. Nigga", the opening lyrics from his 1978 recording "Angel Dust" were appropriated by rapper RBX on the 1996 song "Blunt Time" by Dr. Dre, and CeCe Peniston's 2000 song "My Boo" samples Scott-Heron's 1974 recording "The Bottle".

 

In addition to the Scott-Heron excerpt used in "Who Will Survive in America", Kanye West sampled Scott-Heron and Jackson's "Home is Where the Hatred Is" and "We Almost Lost Detroit" for the songs "My Way Home" and "The People", respectively, both of which are collaborative efforts with Common. Scott-Heron, in turn, acknowledged West's contributions, sampling the latter's 2007 single "Flashing Lights" on his final album, 2010's I'm New Here.

 

Scott-Heron admitted ambivalence regarding his association with rap, remarking in 2010 in an interview for the Daily Swarm: "I don't know if I can take the blame for [rap music]".[81] As New York Times writer Sisario explained, he preferred the moniker of "bluesologist". Referring to reviews of his last album and references to him as the "godfather of rap", Scott-Heron said: "It's something that's aimed at the kids ... I have kids, so I listen to it. But I would not say it's aimed at me. I listen to the jazz station." In 2013, Chattanooga rapper Isaiah Rashad recorded an unofficial mixtape called Pieces of a Kid, which was greatly influenced by Heron's debut album Pieces of a Man.

 

Following Scott-Heron's funeral in 2011, a tribute from publisher, record company owner, poet, and music producer Malik Al Nasir was published on The Guardian's website, titled "Gil Scott-Heron saved my life".

 

In the 2018 film First Man, Scott-Heron is a minor character and is played by soul singer Leon Bridges.

 

He is one of eight significant people shown in mosaic at the 167th Street renovated subway station on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx that reopened in 2019.

my first attempt at skating pictures

Nate Contente

Toronto, Canada.

 

Model: Milena Fraga.

 

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Norio taking a nap in the warming house (from the sun from the south) in the early afternoon. He is content, peaceful, and happy.

If you enjoy the content, please consider supporting my work by using the link below so I can book more photoshoots.

 

www.buymeacoffee.com/debaserphoto

Panciatichi Assumption is a painting created c. 1522–1523 by the Italian Renaissance artist Andrea del Sarto. It is housed in the Galleria Palatina of Palazzo Pitti, Florence, Italy.

The painting was commissioned by Bartolomeo Panciatichi (the Elder) for a private altar in the French church of Notre-Dame-de-Confort, in Lyon; however, when finished, it remained in Italy. It was subsequently acquired by Bartolomeo Panciatichi the Younger, the man later portrayed by Agnolo Bronzino. In 1526 Andrea del Sarto used the same composition in the Passerini Assumption, now housed in the same museum. Later, Bartolomeo gifted the work to Jacopo Salviati, who moved it to his villa del Poggio Imperiale. After all Salviati's possessions were confiscated by Duke Cosimo I de' Medici, the villa and all its content went to Paolo Giordano Orsini, husband of the duke's daughter Isabella d'Este.

After several changes of property, including a period under the Odescalchi, the villa returned to the Medici family in 1602. In 1687 it was decided to the move the Assumption to Pitti Palace, as part of the collection of prince Ferdinando de' Medici. The panel was enlarged in that occasion, in order to mount the same frame of the Passerini Assumption, also taken to the palace.

The work depicts the theme of the Assumption of Mary with two registers: the lower one shows the apostles of Jesus crowding around Mary's empty sepulcher, looking at her while she ascends to heaven in a cloud in the upper part, surrounded by happy putti. Andrea del Sarto painted two kneeling apostles in the middle, according to the traditional pyramidal composition of holy Conversations, joining them to a circle of other apostles which can be seen, for example, in Raphael's Oddi Altarpiece.

The presence of a grotto at the right is unusual. Mary is looking upwards, surrounded by a celestial light . At her sides are two symmetrical groups of angels, whose tables perhaps were intended to contain the artist's signature, the donor's name and the execution year; another, in the middle, calls the apostles' attention towards Mary.

Some of the characters were perhaps portraits of existing people. The apostle kneeling and looking towards the seer, for example, is sometimes identified as Andrea del Sarto's self-portrait.

Thanks for all your comments and faves, much appreciated.

www.barrylowmanstreetphotography.zenfolio.com

 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=xF4Pr5yVbo4

I want to come back as a cow on this farm next time round. Fed 20 times a day by a robot, floor swept automatically 24 times a day, and the most comfortable mattress to lie on.

Lake Ontario, Toronto

Southwark, London

Note: this photo is available for licensing in Getty Images' Moment Collection (creative content). You can find all the creative-content photos I have with Getty here.

© Tam Mains. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce this image on websites or on social media without the owners consent.

Title:

Right to the water's edge.

 

( FUJIFILM GFX50R shot )

 

Motosuka Beach. Kujukuri Beach. Sanmu City. Chiba Prefecture. Japan. 2025. … 1 / 1

 

(Photo of the day. Unpublished.)

 

Images:

Geoffroy … No Calls Before Noon

youtu.be/Sua7LOBd9x4?si=vczU4fV0pMY6xrMN

  

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My new novel

B♭ (B Flat)

 

Volume 16😄

The following is still in its draft stage and will be revised further.

Key parts are not disclosed.

The order of the content shown here is mixed.

(Of course, this is not the final version.)

 

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My new novel

B♭ (B Flat)

 

Night was drawing its heavy veil over the neighborhoods of the San Fernando Valley, and Kevin Mori’s car slid forward as though gliding on a shadowed surface. Beyond the window, the heat of summer’s night rose, while the asphalt, still holding the brilliance of the day, scattered red and black reflections like fragments of muted fire. His day as an officer of Immigration and Customs Enforcement had not yet ended; it merely continued into the dark. Papers on the passenger seat trembled faintly—orders, reports, each sheet a cold reminder of how every decision could alter the lives of flesh-and-blood people.

The radio crackled with static, then carried the clipped voices of another unit.

“Check complete—residential route secure. Residents advised, heat alert.”

“Roger. Next, proceed to downtown infiltration confirmation.”

The words were concise, yet beneath them lurked the weight of responsibility. Kevin’s colleague at his side listened in silence, and Kevin imagined the strain, the fatigue, the daily fears borne by his subordinates.

The quiet houses of the district floated in the pale light of the streetlamps. Windows glowed with the warmth of family life, and the trees in the yards swayed with the scent of summer. To Kevin, that scene was both what he was sworn to protect, and a stage upon which the gravity of judgment was constantly revealed.

Merging onto the freeway, he entered a sea of headlights undulating like waves. Far ahead, the spires of downtown buildings pierced the night sky. The air was thick with heat, the car’s air conditioning too feeble against the humidity clinging to his skin. On the phone screen in the passenger seat, messages flared cold and abrupt—emergency notices, field reports, each short phrase carrying the weight of lives in the balance.

Through his commute Kevin narrowed his eyes, as though unconsciously trying to read the palette of the summer night. Neon reds and oranges crossed with the green of traffic signals, while the outlines of distant mountains and the shore emerged dimly in the haze. In the rearview mirror, his own face appeared distorted by fatigue and responsibility. He imagined how it must look reflected in the eyes of his men, and in the eyes of those who lived in this city.

As the suburbs gave way to downtown, the flow of cars turned into a red river of lights—not the bustle of rush hour, but a current charged with tension. Footsteps of passersby, the wail of an ambulance far off, exhaust mingling with sea breeze—each sound and scent announcing the unvarnished reality of the city.

Conversation in the car was pared to the barest minimum. His colleague tapped silently at the phone, scanning reports and maps. Every burst of radio static carried words few and clipped, but each syllable held the weight of someone’s life.

At the office, the parking lot was lined with colleagues’ cars, their engines humming in faint reply to one another. A night wind slipped through the windows, rustling the scattered papers—a sound that resembled the heartbeat of responsibility itself.

Inside the building, the cool air brushed his skin, blending with the stillness of late night to bind the corridors in a taut silence. Each step sent back a cold echo. Notices and bulletins on the walls caught the dim light, whispering of daily duty and the reality that awaited beyond.

In the meeting room, his subordinates lifted their eyes to him; reports on the table quivered slightly in the conditioned air. No one spoke, but silence itself was steeped in tension. Everyone knew that today’s decisions would ripple outward to change the lives of people unseen and far away.

As the meeting began, real-time transmissions crackled from the radio, and gazes crossed one another. Between the numbers and the dry lines of reports, there were always living human beings. To protect them—or expose them to danger—was the responsibility that each man recognized as his own.

The meeting stretched deep into the night: communications with the field, sorting of documents, instructions for the next day. Outside, the city wavered in the heat, neon glinting against the office windows. Kevin pressed the day’s weight into his heart as he stared at that restless light.

By the time he set out for home, the city had assumed a face wholly different from daytime. Shadows under the streetlamps, red reflections of neon, exhaust tangled with the sea wind, the faint silhouette of mountains dissolving into the night sky—all of it bore silent testimony to the consequences of the day’s choices.

He glanced at the papers on the seat, drew one deep breath. Summer night air slipped in through the window, brushing his skin. The sense of responsibility weighed heavy on his chest, and so did solitude, but in the pulse of the city he found, still, the strength to take another step forward.

Through the night’s lattice of light, Kevin drove on across summer Los Angeles. The voices on the radio, his men’s tension, the office’s chilled air, the neon glare, the tang of the sea breeze, the distant siren of an ambulance—all of these tangled together, imprinting themselves as the day’s memory. In the silence and in the few words exchanged in the car, in the quiet and the clamor of the city, in the interplay of light and shadow, a living map of the city was etched inside him, sharpening both the solitude and the responsibility of his role as an officer of ICE.

As night deepened, on his way home he clutched the papers on the passenger seat and watched his own shadow fall beneath the streetlamps. He listened closely to the city’s voice: the reflection of light, the tremor of heat, the siren far away, the stillness of neighborhoods. All of it pressed responsibility and solitude deeper into his chest.

When Kevin pushed open the door of his house, the night’s heat retreated slightly, replaced by the cool air of the living room flowing to meet him. He dropped the documents onto the table; the bundled papers struck with a dry sound that sank into silence, as though absorbing some measure of the weight that had burdened his shoulders.

Yet that moment of relief quivered almost at once, like a string brushed by an unseen hand. From the depths of the house came a faint creak—timbers straining, or perhaps the plucked resonance of some hidden instrument. Kevin strained to listen, then wondered if it was no more than the ghostly trick of fatigue.

The air trembled. Water in the half-drunk glass on the table rippled with faint light. The ripples, small yet certain, seemed to resonate with a force lurking in the house’s depths. A frame on the wall slipped askew, and through the glass the smiling figures in the photograph appeared slightly warped. A raw unease rose in Kevin’s chest, and his gaze lifted toward the ceiling. Above the panels, the beams murmured to one another, a low groan not of chance but of deliberate design, as if some hidden architect had composed the house itself as an instrument.

The floor rumbled, faint vibrations pressing upward through his feet. Streetlamp light bled through the curtains, filling the room with a wavering orange glow, as if already foreshadowing collapse. The house expanded and contracted like a lung, like an unseen heart pulsing in the dark, its beat echoed by the beams and pillars. Kevin set his hands on his knees, unmoving, listening. The sound overhead no longer resembled random creaks. It grew with rhythm, swelling into a low wave that spread across the room. The wallpaper split, revealing a thin fissure that carried within it the promise of widening.

The water in the glass quivered, scattering the lamplight into shards. The window shuddered under the night wind; metal fastenings clicked faintly. The beams groaned louder, as if in answer. In that instant the whole house became an instrument, releasing a deep, resonant note. The vibration struck his inner ear, mingled with the pulse of his blood.

Kevin pressed a hand to his chest—but his own heartbeat and the heartbeat of the house merged, the boundary between them dissolving. Cracks across the wall swallowed light, dark lines spreading. The beams moaned and bent, their sound a summons downward, inevitable as gravity. Glass burst into fragments, scattering the street’s light into the air. Furniture leapt, books tumbled, the table tilted.

And then—the ceiling split, and fell. The roar shook even the lamplight outside; dust rose in a choking tide, the world turned white and sightless. Kevin’s body, too, was caught in the same current as the beams and pillars. Whether he stood, or fell, or was torn apart—he felt not terror but a strange relief. Together with the house, he was sinking into the close of a final movement. There was nothing to flee, no document to guard, no responsibility: all dissolved now into dust.

The beams broke, the pillars collapsed, the floor split. His bones, his blood, his voice—all shattered into fragments carried into the night air. The collapse was not violence, but the coda of a meticulously designed score. Kevin, too, was only one note within it, drawn at last into silence.

When the dust settled, silence returned. Kevin was no longer among the wreckage. Only the shadow of a fallen beam lay there, like a remnant of his being.

Far away, a dog barked. An ambulance siren split the night. The city’s breath went on, but Kevin’s had ceased forever. In the streets remained only the echo of collapse, and the quiet memory of a death no one would hear.

 

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My new novel:

B♭ (B-flat)

There’s still more to come. 😃

(This is not the final draft.)

Set in New York City.

 

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Soundtrack.

music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack/pl.u-47...

  

Note: I gave a brief explanation of this novel in the following video:

youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV

  

iTunes Playlist Link::

music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b/pl.u-47DJGhopxMD

 

My new novel:

B♭ (B-flat)

Notes

1. "Bombay Blood Type (hh type)"

•Characteristics: A rare blood type that lacks the usual ABO antigens — cannot be classified as A, B, or O.

•Discovery: First identified in 1952 in Mumbai, India (formerly Bombay).

•Prevalence: Roughly 1 in 10,000 people in India; globally, about 1 in 2.5 million.

•Transfusion Compatibility: Only compatible with blood from other Bombay type donors.

2. 2024 Harvard University Valedictorian Speech – The Power of Not Knowing

youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K

3. Shots Fired at Trump Rally

youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT

  

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Title.

波打ち際まで。

  

( FUJIFILM GFX50R shot )

  

本須賀海岸。九十九里浜。山武市。千葉県。日本。2025. … 1 / 1

 

(今日の写真。それは未発表です。）

  

Images:

Geoffroy … No Calls Before Noon

youtu.be/Sua7LOBd9x4?si=vczU4fV0pMY6xrMN

  

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僕の新しい小説。

　B♭　（ビーフラット）

  

第16弾。 😄

以下は、まだ初稿の段階です。まだ推敲します。

重要な部分は公開していません。

公開している内容の順番はバラバラです。

(もちろん最終稿ではありません。)

 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

僕の新しい小説。

 

　B♭　（ビーフラット）

  

　夜の帳が低く下り始めたサンフェルナンドバレーの住宅街を、ケビン・モリの車は滑るように進んでいた。窓の外には夏の夜の熱気が立ち上り、路面からはまだ昼の光を吸い込んだアスファルトが、赤黒い光の反射を散らしている。移民税関捜査局（ICE）の職員としての彼の一日は、すでにその夜も続いていた。助手席の書類は微かに揺れ、そこに積まれた命令や報告書は、この一日の決断が生身の人々の生活にどう影響するかを、冷たく問いかけていた。

　ラジオ無線がかすかに雑音を混ぜながら作動し、別の車両との連絡が飛び込んだ。

「確認、住宅街ルート異常なし。熱気のため住民注意」

「了解、次はダウンタウンへの侵入確認」――言葉は簡潔で、しかし背後には重くのしかかる責任が潜んでいた。助手席の彼はその声に耳を傾け、部下たちの緊張や疲労、日々の恐怖を想像する。

　静かな住宅街の家々が、街路灯の光に浮かんでいた。窓に灯る温かい光は家族の生活を、庭に揺れる木々は夏の匂いを、しかしその光景はケビンにとって、守るべき対象であり、同時に判断の重さを思い知らせる舞台でもあった。

　フリーウェイに合流すると、他の車のヘッドライトが海のように波打ち、遠くのダウンタウンのビル群が夜空に鋭く突き出す。空気は熱を帯び、車内のエアコンでは追いつかない湿気が肌にまとわりつく。助手席のスマートフォンに届くメッセージは冷たく光り、緊急事態や現場からの報告が短く、しかし命を握る重さを帯びて彼の視界に入った。

　通勤路の間、ケビンは無意識に目を細め、夏の夜の色彩を読み取ろうとした。ネオンの赤やオレンジ、信号の緑が交錯し、遠くの山並みや海岸線の輪郭がぼんやりと浮かんでいる。車内の鏡に映る自分の顔は、疲労と責任の影で微かに歪み、部下たちや街の人々の目に映る自分の姿を想像した。

　夜の住宅街を抜け、ダウンタウンに近づくと、車列は赤い光の帯となり、通勤ラッシュの喧騒とは別の、緊張の波を帯びた流れに変わる。通行人の足音、遠くで鳴る救急車のサイレン、海風に混じる排気ガスの匂いが、都市の生の現実を告げている。

　車内の会話は最小限に抑えられる。助手席の部下は無言でスマートフォンを操作し、報告書や地図をチェックする。無線が作動するたび、言葉は短く、しかしそれぞれの一語には誰かの生活を左右する重みが宿っていた。

　オフィスに到着すると、駐車場には同僚の車が整然と並び、エンジン音やタイヤの振動が微かな呼応を見せていた。夜風が窓から入り込み、紙や書類をかすかに揺らした。その音さえ、責任の重さを耳に伝える鼓動のように聞こえてくる。

　建物内に入ると、冷房の風が肌に触れ、深夜の静けさと相まって、空間に緊張を張り巡らせる。廊下を歩くたび、足音が冷たく反響し、壁に貼られた注意書きや掲示板の文字が微かに光を受け、日々の任務とその果てにある現実を思い出させた。

　会議室に入ると、部下たちの目が彼を見つめ、報告書がテーブルの上で微かに揺れた。熱気を帯びた夏の空気はエアコンと混ざり、紙の端を微かに波立たせる。誰もが沈黙の中に緊張を抱え、今日の判断が遠く離れた誰かの生活をどう変えるかを知っていた。

　会議が始まると、無線から入る情報がリアルタイムで伝わり、部下たちの視線が交錯する。数字や報告書の行間には必ず生身の人間が存在し、その命を守るか、あるいは危険に晒すかを決定するのが自分だと彼らは認識するのだ。

　深夜まで続く会議、現場との通信、書類の整理、部下の指示。夜の街は夏の熱気で光を歪め、ネオンの光がオフィスの窓に反射してちらついていた。その光景を見ながら、ケビンは一日の重みを胸に刻んでいた。

　帰路につく頃、通勤路の光景は昼間とは違う表情を見せる。街灯に浮かぶ影、ネオンの赤い反射、海風に混じる排気ガスの匂い、遠くの山影が夜空に溶ける。そのすべてが、今日の決断の結果を静かに告げていた。

　助手席の書類を確認し、深呼吸をひとつついた。夏の夜風が窓を通り抜け、肌に触れる。ケビンの胸には責任感と孤独感が重くのしかかるが、それでも次の一歩を踏み出す力を与える、都市の息遣いが確かにあった。

　夜の光の中、ケビンは夏のロサンゼルスを車で駆け抜ける。無線の声、部下たちの緊張、オフィスの冷房、ネオンの光、海風の匂い、遠くの救急車のサイレン――それらすべてが絡み合い、今日一日の記憶として刻まれていく。車内での沈黙と対話、街の静けさと喧騒、光と影の交錯が、彼の心に都市の立体的な地図を描き、ICE職員としての孤独と責任を鮮明にしていた。

　夏の夜が更け、家路につく道すがら、助手席の書類を握り締め、深夜の街灯に浮かぶ自分の影を見つめながら、彼はこの街の声に耳を澄ませる。光の反射、熱気の揺らぎ、遠くで鳴るサイレン、住宅街の静けさ――それらすべてが、ケビンの胸に責任と孤独を刻み込んだ。

 

　ケビンが自宅の扉を押し開けると、夜の熱気はわずかに後退し、リビングの冷えた空気が迎えるように流れ込んできた。書類を手から放り投げ、束ねられた紙の重みがテーブルに小さな衝撃を与え、乾いた音を響かせて静けさの中に沈んだ。

　彼の肩にのしかかっていた一日の重さが、わずかながらその音に吸い取られたかのように思えた。

　しかし、その安堵の瞬間は、見えない振動に触れるかのようにすぐに揺らぎへと変わっていった。家の奥から、微かなきしみが生まれた。木材が互いに軋むような、しかしどこか楽器の弦を爪弾くような響きであった。ケビンは耳を澄まし、しかし次の瞬間にはそれがただの疲労による幻聴ではないかと思った。

　空気がわずかに震えた。テーブルにあった飲みかけのグラスの水面がかすかに揺れ、光を帯びて波紋を広げた。その波紋は小さくも確かに、家全体の内部に潜む力と呼応しているかのようであった。壁にかけられた額縁が斜めにずれた。ガラス越しの写真の中で、笑顔を浮かべる人影が、わずかに歪んで見えた。

　ケビンは胸の奥にざらついた感覚を覚え、視線を天井へ向けた。天井板の奥で梁が共鳴し合い、低い唸り声のような音を放っていた。それは自然に生まれたものではなく、あらかじめ設計された響きの連鎖のように感じられた。建築を学んだ者ならば知る、木と鉄とコンクリートの呼応だ。その呼応が、今ここで一つの方向へと収束しようとしていた。

　床板が低く唸り、足裏に伝わる微細な震えとなった。外の街路灯の光がカーテン越しに入り込み、部屋を淡い橙色で満たしていた。その光さえもわずかに揺らめき、倒壊の予兆を映すかのように見えた。家全体が呼吸をしているように膨らみ、そして収縮する。まるで見えない心臓が脈打ち、その鼓動に合わせて梁や柱が響きを返しているかのようであった。

　ケビンは両手を膝に置き、動くことなく耳を澄ました。天井の奥で響く音は、もはや偶然のきしみではなかった。規則性をもって増幅し、やがて低い波となって部屋全体に広がった。壁紙がわずかに裂け目を見せ、薄暗い亀裂がその奥から姿を現した。亀裂は細い線にすぎなかったが、確かに広がりを孕んでいた。

グラスの中の水が震え、その表面に映る街灯の光が細かく砕けた。外の夜風が窓を揺らし、金属の留め具がかすかな音を立てた。それに呼応するかのように、梁の唸りが一段と強くなった。その瞬間、家全体がひとつの楽器と化したように、共鳴音を放った。空気の震えが耳の奥を打ち、体内の血流と混ざり合うように感じられた。

　ケビンは胸に手を当てた――だが、自分の鼓動と建物の鼓動が重なり、境界が失われていくのを感じた。壁に走った亀裂が光を呑み込み、闇の線となった。

梁が深く軋み、鈍い音を吐き出した。それは重力の命令であり、逃れられぬ下方への召喚であった。ガラス窓が粉々に砕け、夜の街の光が断片となって飛び散った。家具が跳ね、本が崩れ落ち、テーブルが傾いた。

そして――天井が裂け、崩れ落ちた。轟音は街路灯の光さえ震わせ、粉塵が一気に立ち上った。世界は白く濁り、息が奪われる。

　ケビンの体もまた、梁や柱と同じ流れに組み込まれていった。彼は立ち尽くし、あるいは倒れ、あるいは引き裂かれ――だが、恐怖ではなく、奇妙な安堵を感じていた。家と共に、自分もまた一つの楽章の終わりとして沈むのだと。

　逃げるべきものはなく、守るべき書類も責任も、いまや粉塵の中に溶けていく。

　梁が折れ、柱が潰れ、床が裂ける。

　そのすべてと同時に、彼の骨も、血も、声も、無数の破片となって夜の空気に散った。崩壊は暴力ではなく、むしろ緻密に設計された楽曲の終章であった。ケビンという存在も、ひとつの音符としてその中に含まれ、やがて静寂に吸い込まれた。

　粉塵が沈み、静寂が戻る。

　瓦礫の中にケビンの姿はもはやなかった。

　ただ、崩れた梁の影が、彼の名残のように横たわっているだけであった。

　遠くで犬が吠え、救急車のサイレンが夜を割った。

　都市の呼吸は再び続いていたが、ケビンの呼吸はもう戻らなかった。

　夜の街に残されたのは、崩壊の余韻と、誰にも届かぬ静かな死の記憶だけだった。

  

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僕の新しい小説。

　B♭　（ビーフラット）

 

舞台はニューヨークです。

 

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Soundtrack.

music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack/pl.u-47...

  

追記　この小説を多少説明しました。

youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV

  

メモ

 

1

「Bombay型（ボンベイ型、hh型）」

•特徴：通常のABO血液型を持たない（A、B、Oに分類されない）特殊な型。

•発見地：1952年、インド・ムンバイ（旧ボンベイ）で初めて確認。

•発生頻度：インドでは1万人に1人程度だが、世界的には約250万人に1人とも。

•輸血制限：同じBombay型しか輸血できない。

 

2

2024年ハーバード大学首席の卒業式スピーチ『知らないことの力』

youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K

 

3

Shots fired at Trump rally

youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT

  

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Toronto, Canada.

 

Models: Alexis McAllister and Alexis Dianne.

 

Facebook: www.facebook.com/jennireanarvaez

Twitter: twitter.com/TheJennire

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Tumblr: jennirenarvaezphotography.tumblr.com/

 

Check out my Youtube Channel!!!

 

Youtube: www.youtube.com/channel/UCZTjqrQALJ3Nq9pVHzjkOpQ

 

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EyeEm: jennirenarvaez

Loose-leafed, and spilling out it's light content

Portland, OR

 

Not our dog, just a happy fellow along a walk.

 

Camera: Nikon F w/Photomic FTN Finder

Film: Fuji Superia 400

Lens: Nikon 24mm AI 2.8 Lens

Hope to be as content in his age.

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Macau, 2019.

Mr Crissy sure was happy with his back lump of noodles.