A Last Bright Bridge May Soon Collapse

The apartment building stood before them and dripped stories of unloved lives from its balconies...

A Last Bright Bridge May Soon Collapse

When a large statue of a Roman emperor began to climb the fire escape to the top of the apartment building where he sat watching the afternoon city, Jacob knew he had slipped into another delusion.

His hallucinations had brought him to the brink more and more lately, generally after he had spit his pills into the sink. And each time a waking dream ambushed him, another one of the cables that connected his rational thoughts frayed, or even snapped.

At this point, he had few cables left. They had become threads. Jacob had been a structural engineer before something broke inside of him, and knew that even the best built bridge one day tumbles.

He found the roof door, stumbled down the stairs. The walls blurred. His eyes bled. His injuries were only internal.

On the sidewalk, Jacob tilted his head and saw the statue on the roof. It threw bricks down on parked cars and bellowed incomprehensible.

Jacob backed away, then turned and rushed past the storefronts. An old lady offered him a paper bag, but he waved her off.

In the hotel parlor, Susan stroked Jacob’s hair. She kissed him on the cheek. Easy, she said. We’ll turn on the television.

Do you see it? asked Jacob. He pointed to the screen.

No, said Susan. That’s a soap commercial.

I’ll rewind the tape, said Jacob. He pushed a button.

The hotel parlor faded. The television snapped from existence. The apartment building stood before them and dripped stories of unloved lives from its balconies. Susan gasped. Bricks littered the street, and cars displayed their dents, but the statue, if it had ever existed, had returned to its museum.

And in the aftermath, the world smothered itself silent. Even Cuban music refused to leave the apartment windows. Three mothers gazed out from the fifth floor, each with an infant in their arms, and from the expression on their faces, Jacob wondered if they saw an easy escape from their motherhood.

Woman on motorcycle

I’m going back to my hotel, said Susan. She mounted a nearby motorcycle, revved the engine once, and evaporated around a corner.

Jacob ran after her. His shoes kicked up red dust.

As had happened before though, his consciousness stayed behind. He watched a man that looked exactly like him run around the corner, but Jacob, although he knew he usually sat behind the man’s eyes, remained disconnected.

Free from himself, Jacob walked between the bricks in the street to the other side. A tall man with a clipboard and a hardhat walked around a fresh concrete foundation taking notes.

Who are you? asked Jacob.

The architect, said the tall man. We’re building a new hospital.

How many patients will it hold?

Five hundred.

Can you take me back to my hotel?

Five hundred dollars, said the architect.

Is that a lot?

No.

Okay.

In the hotel parlor, Susan sat on a sofa with a small dog in her lap. There you are, she said to Jacob.

Jacob walked over, sat next to Susan, took her hand. I guess I lapsed again, he said.

It’s okay, said Susan. Her forehead twisted.

Do you think?

About what?

The day my last bridge collapses.

Yes, Jacob, said Susan. I think about it. She squeezed his hand.

Jacob sighed. His teeth whistled a warm wind. The dog jumped down from Susan’s lap, ran across the parlor, and settled itself beneath a low table.

What do we do? asked Jacob.

Susan leaned back on the sofa. We go on, she said. Her voice juddered.

Jacob looked away, nodded to the wall. His face said okay to her coarse reflection.

Somewhere, a history professor spoke of Roman emperors. A hospital unloaded another ambulance.

— — —

Thanks for reading Dynamic Creed, home of one of a kind stories they don’t sell in the supermarkets. I must thank

Minna

for inspiration. Not directly exactly, more of a reflected inspiration after reading 15 Burned Matches.

I’ve tried to make a recording, but I just keep running into technical problems. Maybe next time, I’ll keep plugging on it. Meanwhile, my friend Henry of the North has finished reading The Story of Ruth Tarver (sub titled: If You Knew How To Choose, You Wouldn’t Have To), a story in 13 (fairly short) parts. According to him, I am a one man wrecking crew, which he has assured me is a goodly compliment. :) Thank you Henry!

Thanks again everyone, hope you enjoyed this piece. Give it a shout or a hammer hit, if you prefer.

All the best,

Victor David