Archive for ‘business’

05/22/2013

Act

by Pierce Nahigyan

After the premiere, Campbell found a dingy cafe and proceeded to smoke, viciously. He ordered coffee the best way they made coffee, when the waitress rounded his table to ask him, and lit the end of a fresh cigarette with the dying one. It was dark above the city, for the hour was late, but inside she was as bright as could be, lamplights and stagelights on and winking where the streets forked each other, taxis droning over the moist tarmac, and everyone’s eyes gleaming inside the cafe, for it was too wet, and still too chilly, to sit outside in the night.

He pulled his notepad from his pocket and read over the evening’s notes:

Lincoln had a better night at the theatre.

He sighed. His scratchy shorthand marred the bottom half of the page with more ghoulish insights until he came to: “overblown, overhyped, overstuffed tripe that has been Collt’s forte since his mainstream debut, ‘My Heart It Ate a Can of Beans,’ was catapulted to national prominence? What we can say is that the director’s ingenue, Ms. Denning, was not in the mood to act tonight. Not that ‘Kiss Me, Barabbas’ was actable…”

The word “assassination” was written three times in the thin margin.

Campbell sniffed at the coffee they brought him. He stopped the girl that brought it by flicking his cigarette ash in front of her boots. She jerked to a stop. “How much do you make waitressing?” he asked.

She said, “Uh.” He didn’t blame her.

“Do you think you could act?” he asked.

“I am an actress,” she said.

“Oh really?” Campbell said. “What would I have seen you in?”

She named three or four plays that seemed to stress colors and exclamations. “Do you believe in a soul?” he asked.

“I’m more spiritual,” she said.

“Very well. How would you perform the line, ‘I do not love him. He is an evil man with no soul. He has no soul. He has no soul, I say. No soul. Do you hear me, Elohim? He makes me a woman. I am his soul. He has no soul, but I am his soul. Elohim!’”

She giggled and left him with his coffee. He watched her visit her tables inside and balanced the cigarette on his lip. Sure to bring a smile to your face, he wrote.

04/22/2013

Acrocarpous

by Pierce Nahigyan

“The fruit of the future. Was that not your promised result?”

Dr. Fildes nodded to the board. It was a long table, and there were a lot of them to be seated. Horatio thumbed through the summary report of Fildes’ team. He remembered the interns scrambling to find adjectives that made stasis sound exciting. That was the single positive to be gleaned from the last year of experiments. They hadn’t killed the plant.

Horatio let the binder close with a dispassionate thump. “May I remind you, Dr. Fildes, that you were brought onto this project as a replacement. And not our first choice. I’m sure you tried your best to replicate Dr. Ino’s techniques, but that seems to be where you failed. We wanted new ideas, not more of the same.”

Dr. Fildes nodded. “Normally I would agree with you, Mr. Marcos. But Ino was onto something. By following his lead I was hoping that we would have an acrocarpous result in a year’s time. I promised you the fruit of the future because I wanted this job. In part, perhaps to redeem him. Ino was a hero to myself and many of my team.”

Elana, the company’s vice-president, scoffed. “Didn’t Ino advocate treating the plant like a human being? We pulled him off the project when he wouldn’t stop talking to it.”

“No,” said Fildes patiently, “no, that is incorrect. He believed it should be treated like a plant. But he left notes. To the effect that there was evidence of new growth when the plant was embraced like a…like a friend.”

Horatio shrugged. “I don’t care what works so long as it gets results. And you, Dr. Fildes, like your predecessor, have failed to bring us back from the stone age. We’re terminating the project.”

A grumbling assent covered the board, the sound rolling over Fildes like a stone. He sat, flattened, and mustered his courage. “I think that is the coward’s answer,” said Fildes. “We’ve kept the plant alive this long, the very last shred of a bygone era. If we continue, until all recourse is exhausted, then we might say that we tried. But if we stop now, and let this legacy die here, we deny ourselves and the consumer the real fruit of science. It will be a triumph.”

Horatio sighed. “Doctor, it is a pretty dream. But one fruit cannot change the course of history. We will honor your past achievements and transfer you to our coffeeberry project. You may take your team with you.”

“What about the plant?” asked Fildes.

“It isn’t really much of a plant, is it? The project is terminated. If you’d like, bury it as you would a friend.”

04/19/2013

Acrobat

by Pierce Nahigyan

See the acrobat tumble, twist, roll in the air like a whirligig. He releases the trapeze and hangs for a moment, suspended in space at the apex of his arc. It’s as if the spotlight holds him aloft. Think of that, little photons bubbling on his leotard, delivering him to the tent top. That delightful, invisible carbonation must feel, on his fine cut muscles and manic grin, a worthy reward for the risk, for the danger, for the death-defying feat. His stunt resumes after you’ve held your breath, and he falls, he spins. Like a last-minute scribble from a desperate author on deadline, the trapeze reappears from the shadow. He grabs it, he swings, and in seconds, seconds, he is standing on the far platform, safe, smiling. Spectacular.

04/05/2013

Acquire

by Pierce Nahigyan

Dear Sir,

I regret to trouble you with an unexpected letter. I know that you are an important man and I must emphasize from the start that I do not wish to waste your time. What I have to offer your institution is of the utmost rarity, and I came upon it only by means of much personal sacrifice on my part, physical and emotional, sleepless nights, tireless surveillance, and a broken marriage, so please understand that I am in earnest.

Using certain methods described in my grandfather’s letters, I have, at last, acquired a leprechaun. He is extremely dirty and very magical. Binding him has been a constant chore. Understand that by the methods I used to capture him he cannot leave my house, no matter which windows or doors I leave unlocked or ajar; however, his spells and guile have made him incapable of remaining in bondage for very long, whether tied to a chair with hemp rope, handcuffed with cold iron, encircled by salt or unconscious under a pile of cats. Invariably I or my wife would see fit to release him or he manages to escape on his own, and then it is hours of hell finding him in the house and binding him again. At first he was furious to be denied escape, but now I believe his imprisonment amuses him.

Good sir, I have been the host of an ill-received guest for nigh on three months now. My wife is gone, my home is in ruins, I cannot stop spitting out gold coins and flowers (I do not mean this figuratively, and I will not further detail what has become of my plumbing or what has gone into it, or out of me). I cannot leave the house due to my condition(s), nor can I use the phone. The leprechaun has fixed it so that the only thing I hear is the sound of emergency vehicles.

To my great disappointment, the only way I can relieve myself of this torment is by bequeathing the creature to a non-profit institution. Please believe me, I understand fairy logic no better than you, and I have read many, many tomes while the sirens of ambulances ring in my ears. Please do not disregard this letter. Please take my leprechaun. I have enclosed a photograph of him, though by the time it reaches you it may have become a custard pie.

With utmost sincerity,

Martin Farrell

04/03/2013

Acquiesce

by Pierce Nahigyan

The Queen ordered him to kill the girl, and the huntsman acquiesced.

They went riding together, he and the princess. He had promised her that there was a white hart in the King’s Forest that often came to drink from the mountain spring. Galloping beside her, he wondered at his lie. The Queen had demanded that he cut out the girl’s heart to give her proof of the deed, and he, wretched, imagined the foul deed over and over, each time pulling a whiter heart from the girl’s young chest; and was this wordplay he made, in his empty promise to the girl, when he had never been clever with words before? He led her deeper into the wood, his brow knitting tighter, his stomach churning with the sin of his service.

They had not spoken for some time when he felt the girl’s cool fingers on his arm. She asked him what was the matter. His face, she said, his face was so sorrowful. Forgive her forwardness, she apologized, but he appeared on the verge of weeping.

“You must leave at once,” said the huntsman. “The Queen, your stepmother, has ordered me to take your life, and I am fain to do it or else I die.”

Showing no hesitation, the princess bared her breast to him. “You are a servant of the realm, as I am. Do your duty, sir.”

The huntsman was aghast. “Would you throw your life away so readily, for a madwoman?”

In a flash, the princess was gone. Harsh smoke, purplish cinders, consumed horse and rider, and in their place, once the wind had lifted all to the gloomy skies, was the Queen herself. “Madwoman am I?” she said. “I should have known a huntsman was too soft-hearted for this task.” Like the bolt of a crossbow her fingers dived through his chest. She wrenched them back, his beating organ clutched in her bloody hand. “Soft as cheese,” she said, and crushed his life.

On the morrow she arranged for the girl to be abducted by mercenaries. It was strictly a job for professionals.

03/15/2013

Acme

by Pierce Nahigyan

For almost a decade, The Regency was considered the poshest hotel in Scat City. The rich and the famous would stay nowhere else, as a rule, but it was its reputation for elegance and a certain international je ne sais quoi that attracted the ambassadors of the first, second, third and emerging fourth world countries. The acme of American customer service, no request of its staff was too inconvenient, no towel less than terry, no champagne less than tony, no book of religious worship in over two-hundred available languages placed at the request of the guests less than divine. Sadly, the hotel was shut down when it was revealed – in a startling exposé in the Wall Street Journal – that The Regency was actually a practical joke on the part of Scat City. The head of the city council, the mayor, the chairman of The Regency, knew nothing else would attract the high and mighty like an out of the way, high-priced hotspot with absurdist amenities and an army of minimum-wage joyslaves. People don’t generally visit Scat City, and it was the population’s way of getting a cheap laugh on the rest of the world’s dime.

The rest of the world was not amused, and The Regency’s guests disappeared almost overnight. This was part of the gag for the city, which spent days laughing during the drive to work, in the cafes at lunch, at home with the kids, and on picnics over the weekend. The world told them to knock it off, and the citizens gradually subsided to poorly repressed giggles, smirks, chuckles, hee-haws, and yucks.

People tend to avoid Scat City. There’s a lot of obscene comradery in that town.

03/01/2013

Acierate

by Pierce Nahigyan

It was the late ’60s, American business was strong, and Jeremy came back from the war to a place already prepared for him in the factory. It was a riot of sound, and one color, molten orange, when everything else was black and ash. The hammer came down on the iron, the metal hot enough to twist the air itself, and as the foreman led him through the factory, the two of them garbed from head to foot in heavy protective suits, he was hypnotized by the sight of the men knocking the blazes about. He watched the acieration through thick black goggles, felt the heat on his face, a strong, bold heat, so unlike the wet fingers of Cambodia, all day long, all night long.

When he left the factory that first day he stopped outside the gates. The cold Michigan autumn kissed him, then made with the rougher stuff. And after the blazes, he was into it. He reached for the icy bars and braced himself in the gale.

A man on his break, ashes smeared across his forehead, was smoking a cigarette against the hood of his car. He pulled it out of his mouth to ask, “Are you all right?”

Jeremy nodded. “It just feels so damn good to be back home.”

The man flicked his cigarette. “What’s your story, kid?”

Jeremy just smiled. “This is it, sir. This is all it is. I’m going to marry Emily King. I’m going to work at this here factory. I’m going to come home to a nice warm dinner and give my wife a nice warm kiss and, God willing, we’re going to have us some wild little kids.”

“What about the war?”

He shook his head. “It’s still out there if you’ve got a TV. I threw mine away as soon as I got back.”

“My wife really went crazy for that new color TV.”

Jeremy smiled. “I’ll have to drive mine crazy the old fashioned way.”

02/13/2013

Acheron

by Pierce Nahigyan

Tuesdays Morris would make the long hike up from the Field of Wailing to the bank of the Acheron. If the dead were light that day, Charon would park his boat and talk with Morris awhile. Most of his fares were weepers, and those too proud to weep generally sat silent or muttering in the bow. They were not much for conversation. The worst would try to attack Charon or overturn the boat. Those Charon quieted with a solid thump on the head, and having Morris at the bank to hand them off to made the work easier. As soon as they touched the bank they became like so much boiled water. And Morris wafted their vapors down towards the damp cavern of the Underworld.

Their dialogue always began light and friendly. Morris would offer Charon some grapes plucked from above Tantalus’s ever shivering brow, fill him in on the latest gossip concerning the Queen. Charon would nod and nod (this was his accustomed form of banter). When the hour lengthened Morris would turn the conversation to the river itself. How choppy was it today? Was it colder in the mornings? And then Morris would try to cajole Charon to ferry him to the mortal world.

“The mortal world is for mortals, Morris. If you returned you would be decidedly immortal. It would put you in dangerous company.”

Morris would not be swayed. “I shall bring you back whatever you like. Whatever you desire,” he promised. “Riches, a woman, two women, freedom even. Do you not wish for a single day without labor?”

Charon would push his oar into Morris’s pale hand. No matter how many times it slipped through like a broom through a cobweb, he reached for it still. “And will you relieve me today, Morris?” Charon asked. “Will you take this burden, in good faith? For one single day of respite could I trust you to row dutifully, morning to night and again, hearing the weeping and the bickering and facing the enmity of men, and ignore the promises of the beautiful and the oaths of heroes slain before their imagined glories? Could you bear it for a single hour? Would one day’s wages buy you an eternity in the sunlit lands when an eternity in Hades has not bestowed one day upon me?”

And Morris said no, very quietly. Then he’d say, “I’ll see you next Tuesday.”

And he would. In a week’s time, they spoke again, of the same doldrums, to unload the same wraiths, and to bicker and to depart. Even in Hell, that is what friends are for.

01/23/2013

Acentric

by Pierce Nahigyan

Wilmington Estates is a tightly planned suburb aimed at middle to high income earners, located fifteen minutes’ commute to the city by highway. Its rows of houses include several identical amenities, in appearance sporting four facade designs, sizable front yard space and fenced backyards. The homeowners association is one of the most respected in the county, catering to young professionals starting a family who place family values at the forefront of their lifestyle choices. Without the moral relativism of less involved associations, the Wilmington Estates committee is a conservative, secure body, one its residents can trust and feel pride in. That has been the case since its head, Chief Administrative Officer Morgan Fairfield was eaten by a demon he and his ex-wife conjured to bring the spark back into their relationship. The association suffered a period of acentric leadership followed by a proud return to form with the election of Maple Avenue’s Douglas Banks as its new CAO.

At Wilmington Estates, our motto is: “Family. Friendly. Fun.” Please address all inquiries to our service line, available Monday through Friday from 9 AM – 6 PM PST.

01/18/2013

Acedia

by Pierce Nahigyan

The curtain covers were fine white silk. The curtains could be drawn back and the covers closed over the window to let in the sunlight. White light, warm light, glimpsed in the thin silk sheet as a pale column. It was a good place to meditate. So Marc opened the window, and pulled the curtain covers, and sat in the light, posture erect, hands clasped over his knees.

The busy sounds of Shibuya entered the hotel room. The hotel room was crisp and neat, sparsely furnished, lots of right angles, the way he liked. The Shibuya sounds met the right angles and the freshly vacuumed carpet and swirled like a gathering stormfront. And he, in its eye, drew into himself.

Long had he served the Takahashi-kai, on the surface an awkward gaijin not worth a second glance, and inside, their tool to wield in the dark places. He meditated now on the business he would carry out in two hours’ time, the sheathe and the knife. His mind became the sheathe for the will that would animate his muscles. This solid flesh in the moment was given over to a higher power, an unthinking one, a place he came to in his meditations.

Ennui is an existential complaint, he thought, sometimes a French one. It is a type of boredom arising from wasted talent or no excitement at all. Ennui is a suspicion that can be deferred by entertainment. Ennui is the mask of acedia. All men held in their hearts, like a thorn in the skin of the arterial wall, a fear that no material act matters, no imprint will outlast this lifetime. Acedia is the unbeliever’s capitulation. The Takahashi-kai had baptized him in fire, so that no sloth ever entered his bones, no day was without its lightning, no hour ever challenged his devotion to that greater salvation. He chose gokudo, the ultimate path. He was his talent, and never wasted, spiritually pure. A deadly living thing.

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