The Wasserspeier (6/18/2020). -M.Weisgerber (500 words x2)

“The Wasserspeier”

There was someone coming, climbing up fast along the length of fire escape.  I did my best to hide, unsure what to expect, feeling slow, stupid from hunger.  The hot days of early June had given way to that particular Seattle dark, where the whole world seems painted, a fake canvas.  The crowds below continued to scream, the nearby trashcans continued all ablaze. 

In the confusion I neared from behind, ready.  The kid jumped.

“Holy Gods, you scared me!” 

“Sorry about that – I didn’t expect anyone else to be up here.”  I slunk back into the shadows, listening now as the pair squared off.  I hadn’t seen the woman in the gloom, hadn’t heard as a door or hatch somewhere must have opened.  The cravings were making me careless.  I neared anyways. 

“It’s just a good place to take a smoke is all.  Relax.” 

“There’s no roof deck or catwalk here or anything?”

“Nope.  Why?”

“I’m looking for a place to hang a banner – join the fight.”

“You don’t live in the building?”

“There’s a ladder.  I needed to get away for a bit.” I circled them wearily as they gabbed, knowing four eyes always saw more than two – best to wait?  Oh, but the gnashing, the need...

“From what?”

“Haven’t you seen?  The city is burning.” 

 “Is that what it is?”

“Yea, it’s the protests.  Same old, same old.” 

“Eh, cities were built to be burnt.  Not my problem.”

I advanced again, reaching out, unable to contain myself.  Instead of soft flesh I merely nicked the humans pocket.  Something fell to the roof deck; I gobbled it greedily.  Chocolate?

“Gods it’s cold up here.”

“It is, but it’s the best view of the City.”  A pause.  “Hey, it looks like you have something flapping from your rear-is that a hole in your pants?” 

“Strange.  Must have caught it on something.  Do you mind though?”  I twitched.  He merely held the painted canvas taunt.

“As long as you don’t plan on tagging anything, or going all Stephen Paddock.”  I stooped behind a chimney, contemplating, judging distance in my mind.  Could I distract with a brick?  No, I could not wait any longer.  The need, the greed - I would pounce, would bite them, rip them, tear their guts to shreds! 

“OH CRAP!”  I stopped, startled again.

“My car!  I have to go…I have cans and grub in the back.  Thanks for the understanding though.”

“No problem.  Stop by any time.”  Her face was alight with soft color, with vapor.  I inched closer – the moment was at hand!

“With friends?”  I paused as this new word, curious. 

“Yea, it’s not my building.  Bring whoever you want; just as long as you don’t mind that there’s a gruesome gargoyle over in the corner.  That thing always gives me the creeps.” 

I sunk back, delighted, waiting as the boy left, preparing my next move. 

There would be other prey then, and soon - my patience thus continued. 

For a little while, anyways.  

 “The Gargolye”

The cold days, the rain - oh how they thus gave way to the fury that is May.  Seattle town, this city all ablaze.  Dead men down, a knee to the back (higher still - do not talk about it so soon!) 

The crowd; they see me up here, call now for my name. 

“It’s a lady!” yells one.

“It’s a tramp.”

“Whatever it is, it should be a man,” speaks a fellow from State TV near the back. 

A gargoyle-that is me.  Climbed six stories, downtown just visible past this nose of stone.  Gazing down, lifting hands as if the spirit had taken me, moved me, shifted power to the streets.  Call me black, call me lives, call me queen.  Call me love, call me trans, call me a spoken word made of dreams.  For its a step, then the clap; all faces turn now back to me. 

“Speak!”  yells the one.

“Peace!” cries part, then the whole crowd - yet certainly not for me? 

“Leap!” say others quieter, sneering.  For I remain black, remain proud, remain as they see. 

Yet how best to get my story out?  None of them see the real, just watch as our city go up in flames. 

“Hello!”  I say, their eyes all turn alight.  But once the pause hits, their eyes thus turn to fright.  I can hear the whisper, can here the dregs of day.   Face of stone, all of tears.

“A doccione that is me, do not fear!  I have seen the communards out in Paris, have dined mighty in the world of Rome, yet this American wasteland?  It for now remains my home.  So free, yet without a guide, rudder, listlessly roam.  So I climbed, up above where the world still tried to make sense.”  Yet up here is only the breeze, the graffiti far away from the Movement.  Why oh why, just can’t they see me? 

Oh the hoots, the hollers they come up alongside with the flames.  Oh the stress it spills out, around – I think I’ve forgotten my own name.  The disappointment grows as I sit back down, the sadness it to builds.  Call me black, call me lives, call me queen. 

Call me love, call me trans, make me matter, call me everything in between.  For its a step, then its clap; a subtle movement, then can be a splat.  Oh please, oh please, can’t someone just call aloud for me?

In the crowd I saw a girl just like me.  In her face the future – consideration of another possibility.  She is me, I once her, my fear takes hold, I cannot stir.  I cannot wave, can only do little but shame.So for now I merely sit here, all in tears.  Unmovable as Tahoma rising.  Banner in my hand – I hope it is enough.  A modern day Antoinette, chopping block at the ready.  Let them all flutter in the wind - for now, that statute that is me. 

Maybe a smoke for later.