The Talon: Vignettes by Three Seniors

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Faces | Ben Antonio | acrylic | 18 x 24 in.

ANARCHY IN THE FIRST WORLD

vignette by luke stone

Despite the CDC’s warnings, all 250 strangers line the limestone brick with no regard for the six-foot rule. A woman talking on her cell phone coughs into open air. A white-haired man scratches his wrinkly nose before sneezing straight into his hand. Another man rubs his eyes, yawns, and checks his watch. It’s 7:58 a.m.

The line stretches past the pizza place that’s begging for delivery orders but not quite to the hot yoga studio that’s still charging for classes online.

Everything in this shopping center besides Publix is doomed to fail.

Finally, some teenaged bagboy who won’t get a dime of the two trillion dollar stimulus package unlocks the automatic door to let the wealthy flood in. It’s Black Friday meets Brooks Brothers and Bentley.

The man in needlepoint loafers has to buy his “own damn wine” without the help of a sommelier. The botoxed sixty-something asks the Yorkie in her Gucci purse which gluten free dog food it wants. Before quarantine, this elderly population with dozens of underlying health conditions only left their houses for dinner parties and the Gulfstream hangar at Palm Beach International. They are without the underpaid “help” on whose backs their estates were built, having to buy their own food and cook their own meals like their parents did during the Depression. For the first time in their lives they’re kind of like the rest of us, just with more square footage and superior healthcare.

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ROME BURNS

vignette by freddie woltz

The water in the pot rises to a boil. I pour it over a few packaged dry leaves. Earl Grey. The sun is shining now, painting my kitchen in a golden hue. I bask in the heat, a welcome change from the dreary rain of the past few days. The tea is ready. Time to add my signature ice cube.

Plop. The boiling tea attacks the lone ice cube. “Like antibodies,” I muse.

The Wall Street Journal headlines catch my eye. As soon as my brain makes sense of the front page, I discard the information. “Where is the real literature?” I ask as I glance around for my serious reading. Doctor No by Ian Fleming.

With my father’s well worn childhood copy in my hands, I move to the back porch to sit in the sun. “Zone of control, zone of concern,” I think.

The tea touches my lips. Perfect temperature.

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Fully Loaded | Spencer Doerr | Seattle, Washington | digital photography 4

ELEVATOR PITCH vignette by rhew deigl

I keep my eyes pasted together against the morning sun that raps on my window. “Today,” I whisper, trying to match my therapist’s assured tone, “will be even better than yesterday. First I will make breakfast.” Yes, I can practically smell the omelet. “Then I…” Then I what? My living room is jammed into twenty degrading cardboard boxes. That could use attending to. The voice of Los Angeles sits on the desk in the only livable corner. My fountain pen has sat there dormant so long it will need a full soak. Yes, a jammed fountain pen.

The perfect excuse to leave my silver screenplay off the silver screen for another day. Deep breath. “I will get up and turn off the TV.” Daniel Tosh, I gather, has been riffing all night in the other room.

The eyes come open. My bedside lamp beams at me smugly. Besides its honey-warm glow, the apartment is dark. I find my right arm somewhere under my pillow. It’s 2:41 a.m. and half-digested chunks of a scrambled egg are dripping from the pillow. Beneath the lamp sits the most likely culprit: an empty glass. Daniel Tosh’s studio audience laughs at me as I close my eyes again. It is 2:41 a.m. and I am listening to Los Angeles.

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Alleyway | Ben Monroe | Charlotte, North Carolina | digital photography 6