Ashentown is a dying city, a place of grey skies, cracked cement, and diminished fortunes.
A place where dreams fade away, devoid of hope and joy. And yet, even in its twilight, the city persists… somehow. People are born in Ashentown, grow up, fall in love, raise families. They go to school, go to work, and go home at night. Something keeps the city going.
Ashentown has a heartbeat. Quiet, weak, almost imperceptible, a heartbeat nonetheless. Under the trash-strewn alleys and boarded-up shopfronts, under the empty churches and dingy bars, under the subway no one dares take at night and the sewers prone to flooding, there’s a chamber. A chamber reachable only by winding stairs and labyrinthine corridors. And in that chamber, there’s a man.
A tired, grey sort of man, old and nearly worn out, he never leaves the chamber. It has everything he needs, and it needs him. He sits, he waits, he feels the city all around him, every triumph, tragedy, heartbreak and fleeting moment of hope. He sits and he waits, and one day, there’s a knock on the door. The door that never opens, is never used.
Slowly, reluctantly, he answers it, the warped wood creaking as it swings open for the first time in countless years to reveal a statuesque, olive-skinned, dark-haired woman on the other side. Though she’s dressed in mundane clothes and almost blatantly non-descript, there’s still a subtle glow to her. She offers a smile to the grey man, holding up a string bag of groceries. “Hello, Ash,” she says. “Sorry I’m late. I found a lovely little farmers’ market on my way here.”
“Hello, Tyche,” the man called Ash replies, stepping aside to let his visitor in. “No need to apologize. I didn’t even realize you were stopping by.” There’s an odd hitch to his voice—sorrow, regret, relief, who can be certain? “Make yourself comfortable.”
The chamber shimmers and reshapes itself, taking on a more distinct appearance, that of a shabby but cozy basement apartment, furnished with mismatched thrift store treasures: several recliners and an ottoman, a small table and two chairs, faded artwork on the walls, a bright throw rug for the floor. Tyche sets out the contents of her bag on the table, arranging the ripe fruits and vegetables just so, flanking them with several bottles of beer. She steps back to admire her handiwork, nodding with satisfaction. “Just like they used to do it in the old days.”
Ash walks over next to Tyche. “An offering to the gods,” he agrees. “Fitting, I guess. So… well, here I am and here you are.”
Tyche takes a bottle, pops the cap effortlessly, hands it to Ash, takes the other for herself, opens it as well. “I’m afraid so.” Wordlessly, they clink bottles, and take a sip. “A local product. I’ve had better,” she says. “But it’s pretty good.”
“I keep meaning to get out and visit the farmer’s market, try the brewery, see the sights for myself…” Ash says softly, slowly. “But I just never get around to it.” Ash falls silent for a moment before, “I’m sorry. I’m just not in the right headspace for this. The small talk, the pleasantries. We both know why you’re here. Please get on with it.” His grip around the bottle in his hand is white-knuckled, his face drawn and tense. The little grey man looks old, and tired indeed.
Tyche sighs, putting down her bottle. “This is never easy for me,” she says. “I try to be gentle, but…” She seems to shrug into a different state of being, unchanging in appearance but suddenly more real. More powerful. Inevitable. “Ashentown, your journey is ended. Your time is over.” Still divine, but sorrowful as she adds, “I’m sorry, Ash. You had a good run, but no city lasts forever.”
“I can name a few that seem determined prove you wrong,” Ash says with a dry, bitter laugh. He remembers the beer in his hand and takes another light sip before putting it down. “Damascus, Athens, Plovdiv…” He shakes his head. “I’m an infant compared to them. But I’ve felt this coming for a while now. Times change a lot quicker than they used to. Once the big manufacturers left town and took most of the economy with them…” He glances around the chamber, already losing its definition around the edges. “I feel the dead stores and abandoned areas, you know. Like wounds that won’t heal. Like a missing tooth. Holes and empty places wherever you look.” He steps towards the door, Tyche at his side.
“I know,” Tyche soothes. “It’s not fair. I really do hate this part of the job.” She puts a reassuring hand on Ash’s arm. “For what it’s worth, it’s not like the city will die as soon as you’re gone. It’ll keep going for quite some time. It just, well… won’t have a heart any longer.”
Ash pauses, turning a hopeful gaze up to Tyche. “I don’t suppose we could… negotiate an extension? A few more years? I mean… look, I’m tired. I’m exhausted. But I’m not done here.”
“No one ever is,” Tyche says. “Everything has a lifespan. Even me. Cities rise and fall, and far too many are lost to history.” The reassuring hand tightens a little, as if to prod Ash into movement. “I can’t make exceptions, or else everyone would want one.”
“Well, damn,” says Ash with a resigned sigh. “You know, we’re getting a hockey team next year? Minor league, but still, folks are pretty excited.” He shakes his head. “Shame to miss the inaugural season…” He and Tyche reach the door. Behind them, the chamber is almost completely formless, a soft void whose glow is almost totally faded. The heartbeat thump-thumps once… twice… and ceases as the door clicks shut behind them.
All across Ashentown, its residents felt that sudden, inexplicable loss of something they never could have named, as the city quietly died.
Michael M. Jones lives in southwest Virginia with too many books, just enough cats, and a wife who controls the television remote. He’s a professional book reviewer for Publishers Weekly, the editor of anthologies such as Scheherazade’s Facade and Schoolbooks & Sorcery, and his stories have appeared in venues such as Hexagon, Metastellar, and G is for Ghost. He has a shiny new Masters in Childrens Literature from Hollins University. For more, visit him at www.michaelmjones.com.
2 comments:
Evocative and devastating. I =felt= that, man.
We anthropomorphize things, places, concepts. We give them faces, personalities, quirks. I'm sure there's some deep human need to put our own collective face everywhere we can, to try to relate to it as best we may.
How often, though, do we imagine the actual lives of those projected humans? How often do we come to grips that everything we humanize must one day die, as humans do?
Thank you for this reminder, bleak as it may seem on the surface, that everything we imagine to have life must also have an end.
I rode the ride and had a time, and hurried to check on Plovdiv. It's still there, in case anyone is worried. This may be the most I've ever cared about Plovdiv.
Post a Comment