Imogen and ISIS
  
Imogen and ISIS
A Story of Terrorism and Manhattan Apartment Rents
Published:
11/3/2014
Format:
E-Book (available as ePub files) What's This
ISBN:
978-1-46895-218-6
A dark comedy combining two modern and dark realities; the outrageous rents of New York City and the growing shadow of ISIS. Imogen Curtis determines to make Manhattan her home as Ahmad Betesh is inspired...in different directions. Destinies converge in a remarkably non-violent way, and one woman's dream is enabled by one miserable's man's folly.
That Thursday, Imogen moved in, in the dark. It was eleven in the morning, Suzanne was certainly in her room and sleeping, and Imogen very slowly and gingerly carried boxes and bags, one at a time, down the length of the loft to her room at the rear. By way of illumination was the diffused light from the windows in the rear of the space, which faced the hind end of a hotel and was, maybe, the equivalent to a 15 Watt bulb. Way off, like a star. This was rough. All of it. For one thing, there had been the anxiety of unloading on the 23rd Street sidewalk at a busy time of day, which is any time not five a.m. There was a hurried hug for Melanie, not permitted whatsoever to help and ordered to drive right back home. There was the silly but strong nervousness of leaving belongings on the sidewalk, there for anyone at all to run off with, as you frantically toss one after another into the lobby; the crazed relay race of the unassisted city move, the bucket brigade of one lone fireman. Then there was the transport into the bedroom. Suzanne did not allow shoes to go beyond the front door. This seems a little charming when you come by to see a place. It is a huge pain in the ass when you live in the place, and particularly when you must make many trips in and out. As for the actual moving of her belongings from the door to her room: when one has a sense of the place and its dimensions, this is no real problem, even in darkness. “Oh, Jesus Christ.” It croaked into the main space from behind Suzanne's door like a hateful prayer. Imogen had no familiarity at all with the loft and she had wide shoulders, and a misjudged stretch meant a bang into the washer/dryer, topped by a big tin coffee pot that bounced and reverberated in a thick tin thud. “Sorry,” she whispered back to the empty space. Of course she felt ridiculous, apologizing. The situation was ridiculous. But being courteous is like bone density. It is just there, a part of you, and apart from your own certain knowledge of when it is wasted and uncalled for. “Why didn't you turn on the lights?” This was Suzanne's greeting to Imogen an hour later as she shuffled out of her room looking like a doll left in a dumpster for some weeks. A frilly pajama top in bad shape, pixie hair sticking out here and there, and little legs as pale as plastic exposed under what Imogen sincerely hoped was a pair of panties. Imogen had calmed down, having stored her things for the most part. The ugly dresser drawers were blessedly unsqueaky. “I didn't know where they are.” Please know that Imogen was not sheepish in this response. It was a fact and she uttered it as one, the loft being an odd space and lights not being controlled by plates and switches in the customary areas. “I showed you twice,” and Suzanne was then a demon doll on the move, not unlike the iconic fetish with the razor teeth that terrorized Karen Black in a vintage TV film. She flew to the opposite wall, dove under a cabinet, and presented both her bottom – in panties, thank God – and a power strip. It was the first time Imogen had seen it, but she said nothing.
Jack Mauro currently lives and writes in New York City.
 
 


An error occured loading Text Block content.
EPUB
Our Price:
$4.99
PDF
Our Price:
$4.99
MOBI
Our Price:
$4.99
 
facebook   twitter   Website