Dangling Feet at the Big un-Bang: Volume 1, Chapter 14

10 minutes ago

5 min read

Prior to boarding up the celestial rectangle with rain-warped wood, Desiree documented the phenomenon by taking a video. She recorded the floating mustard-colored bridge from the front, the side, even the back, sticking her phone in the wall. After that, the boards were nailed without a gap between them and were still hanging in the same spot, over the black outlined rectangle, right where Desiree had placed them, when she awoke and came downstairs from a three-hour “sleep” that included much thinking and half-dreaming about the design in the snow and the pumpkin-haired man’s white eyes and lips; it was all unreal and whenever Desiree nearly nodded off, she saw her body contorting through the rectangle like the man in the dusty clothes, only she’d be going the other way, folding instead of unfolding to wherever on the other side.

She left early to reinvestigate the place where it started, recording a video and narrating the timeline.

“This is where I found it. Like a crop circle in the snow.”

Though there was neither snow nor footprints, Desiree knew the neighborhood and walked the path past the trees before the field. She found no indication of the sky-press in the ground. No broken, bent, or flattened grass.

“It was here,” she said, arguing with the video. “It was the weird snow. You can look this up. I’ll have a link to the local news below. I followed the footprints from here, back to my house. They weren’t footprints at first, but they morphed into footprints...” And she turned the camera around to unintentionally face a fence. “You know what—fuck it. I’ll just record someone stepping out of my wall.”

Software edited and stitched together the post by itself, and she published it across social media (on her personal page, not the seductive, faceless ones): the hanging black rectangle in her mustard wall, proof of the supernatural, and the hunt for an explanation, with more tangible proof to come.

Which started Desiree thinking, on her return home through the backdoor for the second time in as many entries, that there would be another stranger on the other side to greet her. And was therefore unsurprised on opening the door to find a gentleman in a plain gray suit, examining the composition of her living room. In a circular mirror above the loveseat, the bald man seemed to look everywhere but himself, his gaze going around the frame. He passed from this to bend closer to the end table, and the small porcelain figurine there of a cat licking its paw. His survey continued from the end table to the turquoise loveseat and the peach throw pillow squished in its corner. He was muted in flair and flamboyance compared to the others Desiree had found waiting in her living room.

Which smelled of varnish.

The invisible bridge in the wall, instead of being boarded up by warped gray wood, was bordered on either side by ornate shutters, dark brown like lacquered walnut.

As if equipped with a new weapon, Desiree took out her phone for a video, panning from the man to the shutters, the shutters to the man.

“How did you get through?”

“It was already open. And with some style by the look of it. I’ve appraised it. Low-level work. Done by a mere ornamentalist. A smiley face on a dusty window. But an elegant addition to the interior of your home.”

Desiree panned to the fresh shutters, apparently carved from the warped boards themselves.

“Last video I made,” she said, “everyone saw the shape boarded up. I come back home, and it’s like this. Lots of detail. Looks like mountains, maybe?”

“A generic range, I’m afraid. This was done by an artisan with a weak memory.”

“I’m recording this,” said Desiree.

“Is that working, by the way? Can you see me? How do I look?”

He checked the length of his sleeves as he adjusted his posture.

“You look fine,” said Desiree, holding the camera steady. “Comparatively inconspicuous to those walking rainbows.”

“Very good,” he said. “Very good. This is new for me. I’m rarely in a position to take a fair stock of myself.” He seemed almost embarrassed. “And you really are very fashionable. So many sophisticated uses of a good belt; you wear it superbly with skirts and dresses. I trust your opinion. It’s all from Stilis if you care to know.” He not only indicated the breadth of the suit and shoes but oddly went past the collar of the jacket to include his bald head. “I’ve always admired Stilis. What do you think? Be honest. Stilis did the whole thing.”

“Never heard of them.”

“But I look okay?”

“The suit fits.”

The man flattened the breast of his jacket.

“This is a beautiful living room. I approve. You have great taste, a wonderful eye, assembling this collage of manufacturing together so coherently. But do you have any hand-crafted pieces in your home? I was looking around while I waited. Does everything come from an assembly line?” The man lifted a gold-glittered coaster shaped like a leaf. “I refer to original Earth work; not those items over there.”

He pointed to the ring, the harmonica, the pen, the vase.

And then likewise to the jars of painted blue and yellow pebbles beside them.

“Nor the rocks, obviously.”

And understanding the routine, and wanting to document the interaction, Desiree retreated to the kitchen and returned with a wire sculpture of bright twisted copper, prettied with rhinestones, of a bird with iridescent eyes and wings.

The man inspected it as he had the porcelain cat.

“Yes, that was positively bent and glued together by a human hand.”

“A friend of a friend makes and sells them.”

The man nodded.

“They’re lucky to have your support.” The tone was patronizing, and he seemed amused at the bend of the wire-beak. “Tell your friend’s friend that I said it’s delightful.”

“And who are you?”

He was square in the video frame for the answer.

“I’m an appraiser. I’m here on duty. And I’m so sorry, but I am eager to leave. If you please wouldn’t mind exhibiting your feet for me first. They’re a homegrown wonder. I just have to see before I’m on my way.”

Desiree crossed her arms, unintentionally recording the depth of her armpit.

“Why are you people obsessed with my feet?”

“Has no one told you anything?”

“No one even asks if they can come inside! You show up and tell me to undress!”

“Well then.” The man looked to the floating rectangle now styled with shutters as if to reassess his entrance. “Maybe I should qualify my expertise first. Artisans can come off a little strong. And some are smug. And impatient. I am not an artisan, though. As I said, I am an appraiser. And I bet you’re interested in knowing about these gifts you’ve been left.”

Drawn by curiosity, Desiree allowed herself to be led to the coffee table and the gold plate offering, where the man picked up the lightning-spun ring.

Next week on Dangling Feet at the Big un-Bang, Desiree gets her gifts appraised. Does she hold anything of particular worth? Is there value to be had beyond silver and gold? Find out November 9.