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Ecliar.

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Ravane
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Click. Click. Click. The sharp rap of heels descending down the stairwell echo throughout a glass-and-aluminum gallery. Delicate porcelain sculptures shudder audibly to the rhythm of a jackhammer. A young woman with full, red lips and dark, ovoid eyes rounds the handrails and stops at one of the flanking windows. She smiles, a burst of violent energy across an otherwise statuesque facade. Her smart brown dress suit is wrinkled from long hours of working in an office and her charcoal briefcase is peeling at the corners. Her hair is in a simple knot at the back of her head, a milky brown accentuating the cream of her skin.

The other side of the glass is a flurry of motion and purpose; a construction crew hurry to complete a new wing of the gallery. The woman's eyes ascend the full three stories of the addition, Her breath quickening and frosting the glass. Rosebuds bloom on her cheeks and she closes her eyes and imagines the building as it will be finished, wires and steel and aluminum forming layers of skin protecting the precious organs within.

Turning, she gathers these feelings inside herself, a small ball of warmth in the back of her mind. There is still much work to do; the electrician had called early this morning about a short in some of the cables, the plumber was late and the concrete had yet to be contracted. There are meetings to attend and deadlines to meet, permits and licenses to obtain. It means little to her in this moment. She is a living motive one step closer to achieving her goals.

~

The explosion rocked the city. The newspapers heralded it as 'the greatest disaster of our time'. What was once a fine art museum in a well-to-do section of Michigan was now so much melted glass and fractured steel. Strangely, the only section of the building to remain intact was a small three story addition to the edifice. Its steel frame was sturdy enough to outlast a small air raid, stated experts over a radio broadcast. The architect, Robin Eclair, was nowhere to be found; some thought it ironic that she had the foresight to save the building but not herself. She was listed as the only possible casualty of the catastrophe. The motive of the bomber was unknown, investigators concluded that very few explosives were used; the building was simply poorly erected and the malefactor used its flaws to his advantage.

~

Click. Click. Click. A young woman with long, auburn hair and dark, ovoid eyes paces as watches a news broadcast with veiled interest in the lobby of a moderately well-to-do hotel. The program is old; it recaps the tragic explosion that destroyed most of a prominent Michigan art gallery. No arrests have been made, and the museum's curators have decided to finish the remaining wing, dedicating it to its deceased architect Robin Eclair.

The woman purses full, red lips in amusement, and turns to the hotel's courtyard. In the center is a nude statue of a man, shoulders thrown back and chin lifted. His arrogant eyes study the sky and the woman follows them. Her chest swells with pride and she gathers her feelings inside herself, to a small ball of warmth in the back of her mind.

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This is a cool little piece of writing. Thanks for sharing it. Did you know that Mohammed Atta wrote a thesis paper at architecture school in (Munich?)? It was about the ruining of the feel of the muslim city of Aleppo by western architecture. Of course, he knew how to get to the point! It's on wikipedia, Atta was an "urban planner."

Edited by unskinned
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