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Reportage by: ELIZA A. VICTORIA, Eon Reportage
Crime Scenes Victims He screams in that field where they left him The young man’s sister made a collage of the sea green and yellow Editing A year ago his dead son a man cradling voice over He says he still couldn’t stand to touch a canvas A gallery a man walking in voice over What else do you want me to say Sound Bite I should have brought me today, get some work done. I have left myself in the bedroom, folded neatly on top of the pillows. Is there a song we can use for the sunset this body’s stillness these buildings are mocking us with their silence but even if the city clung to our knees and begged is how we punish her by transforming her roads into scenery Convenience Store You follow the example of the young woman sitting beside you, the minutes contained within her hands. The minutes plucked like petals in that old game. He will come. He will not come. Destroy. Do not destroy. Tables away, a mother whose son is dying watches the movements of the young woman’s fingers, watches them hungrily. You watch her watching. You want to come to her with open hands. Interview Tell us how empty your life is now, somebody asks the young man in the funeral, Prayer Perhaps there is beauty Editing and now look: the city watches us, desperate, unable to make us listen she must know how it feels to be ignored The reporter stands in front of the wreckage and tells the camera, “Give me something to grieve about. Give me a child that I can give birth to and lose. This accident has killed nine, but I do not know who these people are. I cannot take them home with me. Give me a loss that can belong to me. I do not want to be told again that my sadness is unfounded.” Characters The mother, described as heartless, hates that she is only given a certain portion of the The boy, now a businessman, tries to find the words to speak of a glorious instant. He settles with good, and his friends laugh, apologize: He has always been like this. The child found in the cupboard, in a basket lined with flowers. Curiously, you always find space for the people outside the plot: union leaders, a neighbor who knew the parents, their assumption of authority. You want to replace the word good with something else. One of his friends remembers him before the tragedy, talks to you alone. You take notes, rearrange the sequence of your questions. He frowns, stunned by your knowledge. He wants you to believe that it is possible to pass through a fire unchanged. In your head, you hunt down an expert who could say otherwise. The friend says: You know how it is, like during torture, when you lose the words? You ask, What do you mean by good? The way he shrank back from the intrusion. You want to tell him that you used to like fathers, their silence, the way they become soft when they see their children approaching. The word dances in the air, and he leans back, away from you, satisfied with his answer. You want to ask a question about forgiveness. You let the priest speak, because in stories like these, the afterlife is important. Comments on a Tragedy and perhaps in a house somewhere a mother and a son are watching them
Comments on a Tragedy In the story where the woman disappears without a trace The woman must have walked to a bus stop outside of the narrative.
The story is just like any ruined place, filled with cracks and partial to exodus. We brand the earthquake simply as stubborn and desperate. As we would any survivor.
Question: Why can’t it be smart enough to understand that the city does not have what it wants, and what the city does have, it cannot afford to give?
Vocabulary Test
Reportage The reporter stands and controls the TV after dinner, barreling past the channels with the covered bodies. She doesn’t want to have to say, That girl had eyes like you could never imagine, or, If I outlive you all, I will have to take care of your children. She wants her siblings to still feel safe, and so she helps them lock the gate and stack the dishes, she kisses them good night. She doesn’t say, The room where they killed them had walls just like these, beige and flecked. She chooses a show with a narrative she is not the author of. Notes — You end up on the floor where they deliver the babies. All the walls are white, the phone in your pocket rings urgently, you can’t be blamed for getting lost. You smile back at the people who have yet to know failure. Take the elevator, or the train. They keep the dead bodies in the basement. — The Christian God brought ten plagues. Just imagine the headlines, a colleague says, and you laugh as you make your way through the workstations, the crowd, you throw away your coffee and watch the water turn red. He was my first-born, you write carefully in your notebook, wanting to get the quote right this time. — Your brother asks what he can draw to signify safety. A Bible, a rosary, somebody replies, maybe your mother. You do not face them, you keep your eyes on the screen. A stun gun, a knife, you whisper. Bullets. — Two buses embrace each other on the expressway, crushing the man’s legs. You describe the scene, dropping off the adverbs, counting the days in terms of losses. — Blood, frogs, gnats, flies, you rattle off in a deadpan. Not too fast, your brother says, scribbling furiously. — You tell yourself that you are young, you can enjoy the city in another lifetime. You walk along a street and see the blood smeared over the doors. No story here, you say, and move on.
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