Description
It is cold.
On foot (slowly) he has less than a mile’s languid footsteps to go; he can see safety and warmth from here. He can walk there (slowly) and in only a fist-full of minutes. Clenched tightly, those minutes may elapse. Unwind. Fade. And he will be there in the time it takes them to die. Quickly enough. And he is thankful for that. For the sight of home—right there, over there nested in the concrete, metal and glass arcology that is The Riverview Complex.
He is close. She will not follow him.
He will not see her again; he cannot bear so heavy a prospect as that and for all of its chill, the thought is a comforting one. She will not follow him. She is gone. Or is it he who has left? No matter. Things have changed.
Gallow Street is a cold, bastard-purgatory of commerce and industrial war. A crude-boned, hard-skinned monster of imported human life breathing its smogged, mongrel air, songs of tainted love, and thrusting lurid, unconscious rhythms (blood rhythms, dumb-animal-lust rhythms) into the heart of the world. But here, where Gallow Street crosses the river, something soft has grown in the name of a bridge. City wisdom names all bridges as places of surrender, places where you spit (for forgotten reasons) into the water currents below. He crosses the bridge, the only city bridge properly named. SURRENDER marks its name-plate, as does the date of its completion. And in crossing Surrender, with little under a mile remaining to his journey, he stops after spitting. His glob has struck water. Currents carry it away.
Now, stopped, he thinks of her and all that she will claim to have done for him. He has stolen her gun, to protect against her use of it. And now, with heavy pockets, he stoops low, unlaces his winter shoes and pulls them off. He empties his pockets into the shoes: loose change, odd trinkets…and the gun. It is small enough to fit; it’s muzzle kisses the inside toe, where socks have rubbed the faux-leather smooth and in the shapes of his own toes. He does not feel the chill. His mind is elsewhere, and now his shoes are empty of feet but heavy nonetheless. A breeze tousles his hair, throwing a sand-colored fringe of it across the left periphery of his outward-facing gaze. He sniffs. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and contemplates her gun in his shoe. He stoops again and removes his socks, stuffing them in the still-warm openings of both shoes. His toes clench raw metal-impregnated concrete, his nails (clipped) grate and threaten breakage. He ignores the discomfort and stands erect, one shoe in each hand. He tests their weight and judges them heavy enough for what must be done.
Surrender Bridge is lucky in city lore, and so he wishes for luck (though not for himself) as he drops his laden shoes into the sluggish, lazy river. They strike water and shadow, splashing white and frothy for only an instant. They float, slowly taking on water. They do not sink immediately, and the river (yes, the shadowed and lazy river) takes his offering of gun, change, and shoes and carries it beneath the bridge. He does not see them sink, but he knows that they must. He does not hear the river’s gratitude for the offering, but in the distance, a gull shrieks.
It is cold. He will not see her again; he cannot bear so heavy a prospect as that, and for all of its chill, the thought is a comforting one. She will not follow him. She is gone. Or is it he who has left? No matter. Things have changed. The bridge, aptly named, has accepted his earnest capitulation, and the river carries it away, while to the south and a little to the east, the promise of warmth stands on one bank, while an aged and indifferent factory stands opposite, its twin chimneys belching steam.
***
This is actually the Harrsion Street Bridge in Chicago, tweaked in the Gimp. And as always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting.
Comments (21)
geirla
Great writing to go with the image!
Lashia
Wow this almost doesnt even look like a photograph. Great image and thanks for sharing!
beachzz
Another mysterious tale, I wonder why, and how, and what really happened? I guess only he knows. Your foto works so well with your story, it's dark, murky, full of hidden things no one wants to know about.
watapki66
Wonderful image with the story!
danapommet
Super narrative - great capture of this area. Dana
Roxam
"Gallow Street is a cold, bastard-purgatory of commerce and industrial war. A crude-boned, hard-skinned monster of imported human life breathing its smogged, mongrel air, songs of tainted love, and thrusting lurid, unconscious rhythms (blood rhythms, dumb-animal-lust rhythms) into the heart of the world. But here, where Gallow Street crosses the river, something soft has grown in the name of a bridge." personally, i experienced this particular bit from the wordsmith as especially exquisite, thank you, Chipka!
KatesFriend
Another well painted and mysterious narrative. So many questions, what tragedy has lead this man to this point? He has obviously lost someone important to him and he has lost her as he must lose this firearm - a sacrifice if you will. The photo reflects the coldness and the setting well with its grey sky and dirty non-descript buildings on the left bank. Its polluting heavy industry on the right. The last vestiges of the mighty and innocent natural world now clinging to the edge of the river in the form of puny trees that seem more like weeds than members of the mighty forest that used to command this river.
kgb224
Outstanding work my friend.
myrrhluz
This narrative drew me in to his world. Seeing it from his perspective, I was at once familiar and distant from him. I knew his emotions but not the history behind them. I read it twice to gain a little more and still wanted to know the reasons for his actions as he stood on the bridge. Wonderful narrative, which leaves me wanting to know more of his life. The image has a surreal, murky quality which goes great with the narrative.
Meisiekind
Spine tingling stuff Chip! Amazing story that fits in perfectly with the scene! Wonderful work all around! :)
helanker
Chip, you are so good at making us feel the mood in what you write. Therefor I cannot resist on reading it. This is beautiful and so is the image and yes, this fits beautifully to the words. ;-D
durleybeachbum
You are the master craftsmen! (Yep, I know I've said it before.) A jewel, albeit a dark-centred one. Your deeply depressing image fits to perfection.
ToniDunlap
You take great pictures and your writing is great as well. Always. It always fits. Well done!!
Djavad
La vie, comme un long fleuve tranquille...
ladyraven23452
great stuff as always.
MrsRatbag
Chip, I've said it before and I'll say it again: you are one hell of a writer! And the treatment of the photo is perfect for the story!
auntietk
Ahhhhhhh ... I feel as if I know your character. A little disturbed, perhaps with good reason. Giving a gift to the river gods ... I think I can guess the ending of the story. Wow. This is excellent writing, my friend, and your postwork choices on the photograph are perfect for the story. You kick a$$!!!
-seek-
greatest city in the world! thanks for sharing!
elfin14doaks
Great shot and awesome writing.
0rest4wicked
Cool post work and an intriguing narration!
blondeblurr
I think I solved this mystery, (the why!) and to give him closure for his own peace of mind... It's simple, here it goes: She gave him those shoes as a present for one of his birthday anniversaries (?) For good measure he had to totally disentangle himself, from all her former strings still attached to him, and the only way he could see out of that past with her, had to be like a ritual cleansing, by removing those SHOES to start with. Out of sight out of mind, slowly, slowly... Cheers BB