Blue Jay

Footsteps shuffled and skidded along the wet sidewalk of the busiest street in Michigan's tiniest city. Hanging on the edge of the corner sat a brick building called Artist's Block. It crumbled away in front of the stoplights and passing cars, yet had managed to keep its place for the past thirty-eight years. While most scoffed at the shop, the owner upstairs found that there was little to laugh about. It was the only shop around for miles that could supply passionate artists with the proper instruments of creation; whether they were a painter looking for a new set of oil pastels, a violinist in desperate need of another A-string, or like him, a photographer who simply wanted more film.

Each day at approximately seven-thirty, the owner woke up and looked in the mirror, not knowing who to expect he'd be that day, but only knowing what he was. Today he was Milo Jacobs, and, like every day, he was undoubtedly an artist.

Customers weren't as frequent on Tuesdays for one reason or another; therefore, Milo had no guilt whatsoever leaving the shop in the capable hands of sixteen-year-old Amelia, his assistant and only employee.

Milo knew very well rain couldn't be caught on film, but he favored the look of the lights of the city in the puddles, especially at night. the sun sat on the east horizon, reluctant to jump up through the clouds. The morning chilled him straight to the core, which wasn't far, given his skeleton-like frame. The lankiness of his limbs didn't help the fact. The sweater he wore hung loosely as he hunched over and adjusted the lens to his camera. He sighed and scratched his unshaven face.

It was getting lighter and lighter out, just enough for the sun to play a little in Milo's blonde hair, which he messily pulled back into a small ponytail. As he walked down the sidewalk he suddenly felt a light tug on his shirt from behind. He turned to find a tiny ginger child looking up at him. She couldn't have been more than five years old. Milo stared down at her with a slightly cocked head.

"What is your name?" she piped. In her left hand she grasped a jump rope that trailed behind.

Getting down on one knee to be closer to her height, he answered politely, "My name is Milo. What's yours?"

"Penelope!" the small girl chirped like a delicate bird. Her words sounded funny, and Milo could see why as she gave a wide smile with her two front teeth missing.

"Penelope," he repeated thoughtfully. He hesitantly twisted a loose strand of red hair around his finger and gingerly tucked it behind her ear. "You know, you remind me a lot of someone I used to know."

"What's that?" She pointed to the camera in his hands.

He held it up to be better examined in the light explaining, "My camera, to take pictures, see?" He put it to his face and snapped a shot of Penelope. He had forgotten to turn off the flash and now stared through the lens at a shocked yet mesmerized child.

"Hey!" a voice called from close by. Milo turned his head to see a burly man thundering over from his house. Milo jumped up but only to be pushed back down. Penelope started to cry and ran to the house, making Milo guess this was her father.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "Taking pictures of my daughter, pervert?" Milo tried to rise and explain but instead the man grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up and threw him quiet effortlessly down the sidewalk shouting, "Get the hell away, freak."

Milo stumbled a bit, but did not leave. "I wasn't aware it was a crime to take pictures," he inquired smoothly, as if he was honestly interested.

"I've seen you before," the man accused. "You walk around town taking pictures of whatever you want and whoever you want." He snatched the camera by the strap and yanked it from Milo's hands violently. "And now my daughter's apart of your little collection." He turned it around in his hands, looking it over with disgust. Rambling on he added, "What do you do with all the photos, hmm?"

"You will never understand." Milo's voice was much softer, and yet that only added to the menacing meaning lying deeper. Seeing his camera in the hands of this man...it set his inner core ablaze.

The man's testosterone bubbled over and dropping the camera, his fist then flew forward, colliding with Milo's jaw. Milo's head snapped back and his glasses were thrown off. After a small moment of shocked silence on both sides, Milo slowly tilted his head back up. This time he was not the same Milo as he glared back. His whole being seemed to darken at once. The man seemed to shrink a little and freeze under those piercing dark eyes.

Milo cracked his head to the left and to the right and in one swift movement had the man doubled over, cradling his now broken jaw in his hands. Penelope cried from the house but Milo simply turned, picked up his camera and glasses, and left the spontaneous scene that went unnoticed.

Back at Artist's Block, Milo stood in the bathroom scrubbing his hands together with a vengeance, wiping the small amount of blood clear. There was a rapid tap on the door and Amelia's voice asking if everything was okay.

"You've been in there for half an hour," she said, daring to crack the door open.

Milo dried his hands, rolled down his sleeves, and turned towards her just as he was adjusting the glasses on his face, answering calmly, "Everything's fine."

Used to his odd behavior now, she learned it was no use asking questions and just accepting everything as it came at her. "The ad you posted in the newspaper offering to take head shots got a reply," she informed him. "Samantha Berry. Your schedule is completely free so I made an appointment for her to come in later today."

Milo did not answer and simply walked out of the bathroom past Amelia. Up at the front desk, he picked up his camera and surveyed the damage: a scuffed corner and slightly scratched screen but nothing too traumatizing.

Amelia bounded up to him, her dark ringlets bouncing around her face. She could have easily passed for a twenty-year-old, but her braces gave her away. Milo had never met anyone more mature. Clearly she was the only one fit to run the shop when he was gone.

"The order of canvas came in today also," she continued, but Milo's mind was elsewhere, as usual. Too often he would find himself unable to keep eye contact with anyone, for he'd begin to drift off, swaddled and stuck between the thick folds of his relentless and unyielding thoughts. Sometimes the only things that kept him sane were his pictures, even if for only a little bit.

Milo couldn't control who he was now, or who he'd be later. he found comfort in the control he had over his camera; the settings he could choose, the scene he could manipulate. But the faux allure frustrated him. Lied to his face. It was the reason he went out in the world for more spontaneous shots with people with real faces that told only truths.

He spent the next couple hours in the darkroom, developing film. The chemical-dripping photos hung to the clothesline as they slowly revealed objects and faces. One particularly interested him. He unclipped the picture and held it close to his face, curiously looking over a red cardinal dead on the sidewalk. To think it had once flown so majestically before violently smashing into the store's window. Its head had twisted towards Milo and stared straight through the lens into his eyes before giving one last feeble flap of its right wing.

Penelope's face in her photo was overexposed and shocked. With eyes the size of walnuts, her mouth hung slightly ajar in delighted surprise. Milo stroked the image with his thumb, unable to shake off the feeling of déjà vu.

Before he knew it, the time was two in the afternoon and the door chimed Samantha Berry's arrival. Milo poked his head out to see a short blonde in a red and white polka dotted dress.

"You must be Sam," he announced, almost startling the girl half to death.

"Oh!" she gasped. "Hi, I--it's Samantha actually." She fidgeted awkwardly for a moment, looking a bit unsure as he approached her. "Are you...?"

"Guy from the ad, Milo Jacobs." He held out his hand and smiled warmly. She seemed to relax a little as she shook his hand. "Won't you follow me?" Milo gestured to the back of the store where a camera and chair was all set up with a black backdrop.

"So what is this head shot for?" he asked casually as he adjusted the lights around.

"I need it to send in with an audition form." She forced her back as uncomfortably straight as it would go and repeatedly alternated back and forth between smoothing her hair and dress.

"Theatre, eh?" Milo guessed, positioning the camera right.

"Yeah." Her voice sounded nervous.

"First time being professionally photographed?"

"What gave me away?" She smiled a little.

Milo smirked. "Don't worry--I'll make it as painless as possible."

After a few takes and poses with the flash and without Samantha asked, "Did you lose someone you loved?"

The question came out of nowhere and Milo stopped short, thoroughly taken aback. "Excuse me?"

She blushed bright crimson, same as her dress, as if just realizing what she said. "Oh, no, I didn't mean--I'm sorry, that was--it's just that I couldn't help but notice the little tattoo you've got on your wrist." He didn't know what to say so she further explained, "All the people I know with a tattoo have them in memory of someone. I'm sorry--I was just curious."

"Oh." Milo's eyes sought out the section of inked flesh on his left wrist. Often he would forget it was even there. It was a bird frozen in mid-flight.

She rambled on hurriedly, as if to make amends, "It's really pretty, I like birds, but they're so noisy I think. Some day I might get a tattoo, I haven't decided what though..." After a moment's pause she asked, "What's its story?"

The lie came bubbling off his lips naturally as if it was rehearsed, "It's a hummingbird. My mother's garden had them everywhere."

"Is she dead?"

"No." His tone was short and clipped which told her the conversation was over. She didn't speak another word the rest of the time.

Milo was surprised at how effortlessly he had lied without thinking, as if it was a reflex. There was no reason though--this girl was no threat to him. not like the others who came curious and left suspicious after putting too many numbers together.

Back up front another appointment was arranged for Samantha to come back to pick up the two and a half by three and a half sized head shots. She thanked Milo silently and walked out.

As he watched her retreating figure from behind the glass window, he unconsciously massaged his fingers over the tattoo. He then pulled out the necklace he wore under his clothes. On a long chain was a tiny locket. It cracked open to reveal the face of a girl that had gone missing months before. Red hair billowed everywhere, framing a pair of bright, cerulean eyes. Carved into the left side next to the photo read Little Jae. Hearing Amelia approach he hastily stuffed the necklace back under his shirt. He rolled his sleeve down past his tattooed wrist, where the inked blue jay would forever stay.