Nov 16, 2020 10:40 pm
Friday, 05/13/2022. 9:05 PM
Apartment of Kebi Abdou
A lone figure in a thick, blue bathrobe sits staring north over the rail of her penthouse apartment’s deck, dark hair, still damp from a recent wash, cascade over her shoulders and bare legs curl beneath her as she sits atop a comfortable brick-red corner sectional on the tiled deck. A plain, white mug of cocoa and coffee warms her hands as she tips the edge of the rim toward her bottom lip. Kebi Abdou closes her eyes, inhaling the chocolate and coffee aroma even as she gently blows over the liquid sending lazy ribbons of steam twisting upward. The aroma of coffee warms her with memories. Of Tim. Of a time before Tim when she had preferred tea. She had thought coffee a crude, harsh, and unpalatable drink before Tim. But, he had changed her. Times had changed. And they may be on the verge of changing once more.
Kebi stares off to the north, the indirect lights of the British Museum visible in the block to the north, the warmth of the mug caressing her chin as she takes a sip of her cocoa and coffee. The museum had long been the sole, true constant in her life - if there could be said to be a constant in a life such as hers. She savors the warm taste of the drink as well as the warm memories that threaten to overwhelm her.
She closes her eyes. Now was not the time for fond - and sorrowful - recollections, it was a time for consideration. She stares at the device on the table before her.
"Alexa, play Twelve to Midnight, the first call."
The audio clip begins to play. The American DJ, Kitty North, an overnight weekend radio personality from a minor station in Manchester who may have shaken up the world three weeks ago. To many, the seemingly innocuous interplay between Miss North and her audience that night may have seemed harmless if a bit bizarre. There had been shows that attempted to expose the liminal existence before, to cast a light upon the hidden world, but this one had been different. Something about Ms. North’s broadcast had struck a chord with many within and without the hidden world. So much so that this broadcast had come to Kebi’s attention. She rarely listened to stations that played anything remotely contemporary, so she had not surprisingly not been listening on the night of the broadcast - the fact that it was a station far north of London would also have made it far less likely for her to have heard it that night as well. But, the ripples were hard to ignore. She had been around long enough to know that the smallest fissures in the foundation of the world could expand into continental divides, and something about this broadcast struck that chord with her.
She listens, for the seventh time, to that first call.
With uncertainty for the future, she mutters softly to herself as she stares fondly at the museum lights, "If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favours nor your hate."
Not even the familiar embrace of Shakespeare’s prose can warm her from the chill wind she senses coming.
An uncharacteristic shiver causes her to tightly tuck her bare legs beneath her and she uses her free hand to pull the hem of her robe over her ankles.
I wish you were here, Tim. I could use your insight. And your focus. In spite of this new ripple within our world, there is still work to be done - important work.
Closing her eyes, she takes a long, slow, sip of her coffee brew, smiling at the memories associated with it.
Softly, she intones in a hushed monotone, "Life must go on."
She almost convinces herself that it can.
Apartment of Kebi Abdou
A lone figure in a thick, blue bathrobe sits staring north over the rail of her penthouse apartment’s deck, dark hair, still damp from a recent wash, cascade over her shoulders and bare legs curl beneath her as she sits atop a comfortable brick-red corner sectional on the tiled deck. A plain, white mug of cocoa and coffee warms her hands as she tips the edge of the rim toward her bottom lip. Kebi Abdou closes her eyes, inhaling the chocolate and coffee aroma even as she gently blows over the liquid sending lazy ribbons of steam twisting upward. The aroma of coffee warms her with memories. Of Tim. Of a time before Tim when she had preferred tea. She had thought coffee a crude, harsh, and unpalatable drink before Tim. But, he had changed her. Times had changed. And they may be on the verge of changing once more.
Kebi stares off to the north, the indirect lights of the British Museum visible in the block to the north, the warmth of the mug caressing her chin as she takes a sip of her cocoa and coffee. The museum had long been the sole, true constant in her life - if there could be said to be a constant in a life such as hers. She savors the warm taste of the drink as well as the warm memories that threaten to overwhelm her.
She closes her eyes. Now was not the time for fond - and sorrowful - recollections, it was a time for consideration. She stares at the device on the table before her.
"Alexa, play Twelve to Midnight, the first call."
The audio clip begins to play. The American DJ, Kitty North, an overnight weekend radio personality from a minor station in Manchester who may have shaken up the world three weeks ago. To many, the seemingly innocuous interplay between Miss North and her audience that night may have seemed harmless if a bit bizarre. There had been shows that attempted to expose the liminal existence before, to cast a light upon the hidden world, but this one had been different. Something about Ms. North’s broadcast had struck a chord with many within and without the hidden world. So much so that this broadcast had come to Kebi’s attention. She rarely listened to stations that played anything remotely contemporary, so she had not surprisingly not been listening on the night of the broadcast - the fact that it was a station far north of London would also have made it far less likely for her to have heard it that night as well. But, the ripples were hard to ignore. She had been around long enough to know that the smallest fissures in the foundation of the world could expand into continental divides, and something about this broadcast struck that chord with her.
She listens, for the seventh time, to that first call.
With uncertainty for the future, she mutters softly to herself as she stares fondly at the museum lights, "If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favours nor your hate."
Not even the familiar embrace of Shakespeare’s prose can warm her from the chill wind she senses coming.
An uncharacteristic shiver causes her to tightly tuck her bare legs beneath her and she uses her free hand to pull the hem of her robe over her ankles.
I wish you were here, Tim. I could use your insight. And your focus. In spite of this new ripple within our world, there is still work to be done - important work.
Closing her eyes, she takes a long, slow, sip of her coffee brew, smiling at the memories associated with it.
Softly, she intones in a hushed monotone, "Life must go on."
She almost convinces herself that it can.