Scenes of a Crime
By Jay Coral
The song, not the siren
Lady Gaga was playing when the siren cowed unusually loud in close earshot from my room window. I was sorting my newly-washed clothes, at that time, folding here, hanging there and stuffing everywhere. The song stayed, despite the siren‘s all too common for my left side of the brain prompt. Familiar and characteristically omnipresent on this side of the neighborhood, the sound of the siren often lost some of its emergent attention and was passed on and ignored as the lolling musical ice cream truck. Last time I heard, Paparazzi was no. 4 on the weekly top 10 chart and though I felt that this has a bleak future for a classic, I relishly hummed its tune with the psyche of a modern man.
The dance, not the crash
I stopped my chores and peeked through the blinds. A blue car, driver and passenger doors swung-open, was moving by itself like a slow choreographed locomotive train on the middle of the street. Two men jumped off, fell on the pavement like they were breakdancing, and ran in opposite directions before the car smashed the next car. And then there was the chase, the police shouting and giving the prey a run for his money and winning the hunt because of their numbers. 5:1. In seven seconds, a wavy, diagonal, and cut-corner display of movements danced before my eyes. Wrecked and stationary, the crushed car sat as a mere props on the design.
The face, not the name
Few hours later, streets were cleared and the helicopters were gone. Strolling to my car, I noticed a red spray painting on the sidewalk. There was a picture of a face, did not recall the name, and a text which read "killed by police". No one died that day but I guessed the artist painted it for someone, someone who died somewhere. I remembered him alright, his nameless face on the concrete smiling.
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Jay Coral currently lives in Los Angeles and can be found at http://bluejayeye.blogspot.com/.
By Jay Coral
The song, not the siren
Lady Gaga was playing when the siren cowed unusually loud in close earshot from my room window. I was sorting my newly-washed clothes, at that time, folding here, hanging there and stuffing everywhere. The song stayed, despite the siren‘s all too common for my left side of the brain prompt. Familiar and characteristically omnipresent on this side of the neighborhood, the sound of the siren often lost some of its emergent attention and was passed on and ignored as the lolling musical ice cream truck. Last time I heard, Paparazzi was no. 4 on the weekly top 10 chart and though I felt that this has a bleak future for a classic, I relishly hummed its tune with the psyche of a modern man.
The dance, not the crash
I stopped my chores and peeked through the blinds. A blue car, driver and passenger doors swung-open, was moving by itself like a slow choreographed locomotive train on the middle of the street. Two men jumped off, fell on the pavement like they were breakdancing, and ran in opposite directions before the car smashed the next car. And then there was the chase, the police shouting and giving the prey a run for his money and winning the hunt because of their numbers. 5:1. In seven seconds, a wavy, diagonal, and cut-corner display of movements danced before my eyes. Wrecked and stationary, the crushed car sat as a mere props on the design.
The face, not the name
Few hours later, streets were cleared and the helicopters were gone. Strolling to my car, I noticed a red spray painting on the sidewalk. There was a picture of a face, did not recall the name, and a text which read "killed by police". No one died that day but I guessed the artist painted it for someone, someone who died somewhere. I remembered him alright, his nameless face on the concrete smiling.
- - -
Jay Coral currently lives in Los Angeles and can be found at http://bluejayeye.blogspot.com/.
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