Reegan – Phantasmagoria

“Is that good?”

“Maybe a little to the left. I want to catch the light on it’s fur.”

“How’s this?”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

The artist unconsciously brushed her hand against the leather seat before sitting down. She shifted. Crossed her arms. Averted her gaze before darting her eyes back up towards the antlers towering over the stag’s weathered skull. The head was pallid and cracked but sprigs of brown fuzz sprouted up like grass. Fur was more present near the muzzle and most of it’s thick corded neck had a billowy white coat which hung downwards like moss on a branch. It’s eyes were still glossy pools of vacuous brown and for that the artist was grateful.

The eyes on any animal if you were lucky enough to see them was every burgeoning or experienced creators dream.

“I find their eyes especially, hold such innate sadness. A wisdom held in the tilt of it’s head.” The artist mused.

“It killed itself…trying to jump over one of those barbed fences.” The collector interjected from behind. The artist twisted to look at the man.

“Why was it trying to get over the fence?” She met his eyes to show she intended to know the story. It was the second most fantasized dream of any creator. To have someone know something, anything about a non-human.

“I think it was trying to get to some food. It’s hardly a story. Just some instincts gone wrong.” The man said indifferently. The artist nodded, fingering awkwardly with the camera strap on her lap.

“Where did you get all these animals? I’m sure you realize just how rare this all is.” She laughed.

“We have a taxidermist.” He said and she thought he sounded guarded.

Indeed it seemed like the last bit of living proof existed in these cavernous halls. Entire corridors consisting of mounted creatures some small enough for her hand, dwarfed charming one’s with floppy ears, tiny grasping paws. The more majestic one’s were placed over dinning tables, monstrous one’s with shearing teeth supervised the currently vacant auction rooms. The artist had been startled by one  bulbous grey creature with a dangling nose in her own guest bedroom.

“Does he find out anything interesting about them? You’re taxidermist I mean.”

The man breathed deeply, pondering.

“I’m afraid there is nothing interesting to find. Are they beautiful. Yes of course they are. But they are just animals. But I respect you’re work and of course I can see how artists would be interested. They look for things they can’t ever see.”

The artist smiled at his candid tone.

“I should leave you to it. Some auction guests are going to arrive later… between you and me I’d rather stare at one of those instead. Any other questions?”

“Don’t you ever get curious about what their thinking? You’re practically surrounded by them all day”

“What they were thinking. And not really. It seems like it could get boring. Are you sure you’ll be ok here?

“Yes.” She said suddenly taut.

“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” He said meekly.

“It’s fine.” She said curtly.

The artist watched him depart after some hesitation.

Seems like you get quite boring. All you collectors are the same. Just as stiff as the dead animals. 

The artist turned back to the stag, gasping lightly as the breeze of her eager movement caught some of fur draped down it’s neck and it flicked ever so gently against her arm.

“Jeez…” The artist held her camera, angling it towards the statuesque curve of it’s neck, the ebony nose which glistened in the flare of light from the window behind her.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The monotony of switching positions, fiddling with the focus, clicking incessantly did what it always did once it held her under it’s spell. She drifted to where she always went.

Sometimes it was a grassy plain, the dark line of tree’s beckoning from the distance. Other time’s she went deeper into the woods, explored watching the moss cling to the trunks, the foxes, always foxes following her about mouth gaping in a half toothy smile. Tails sunk low to the earth.

It was always foxes because they were wise. And she listed all the creatures she thought seemed wise. Seemed, because she could never truly know what they thought.

“You seem wise too.” The artist said softly to the stag and clicked again.

Something wet, like an inconsequential water droplet hit her wrist. She wiped it off. Another droplet hit her skin.

She glanced up, the glistening nostril hadn’t caught the light. It was damp.

The artist placed her camera down and quickly stood, foot catching on the chair’s leg. She lurched forward into the stag’s chest, hands sinking into the silky coat like sand. She backed away, breathing heavily. A heart beat pulsed as her palm left it’s fur.

“What?” She whispered.

Hands quivering, she placed her palm back onto it’s coat, poised as if only to examine it’s fur.

Bu-dump.

Muffled, gurgling.

Ba-dump.

The artist jerked back, rubbing her hand as if she’d touched a hot stove.

“Are you sure you’ll be OK here?” She mocked in the collectors voice, minus it’s wobbling.

Are you sure you’ll be OK here?

“You have one mental breakdown and suddenly everyone thinks you’ve lopped you’re ear off, considered baking you’re head in the oven and…don’t forget the whole talking to you’re self.”

You’re talking to you’re self now. 

“Oops.”

The artist stepped back and took a deep breath. She had been hospitalized twice. Because after her break down she just wanted to make sure she took a break. Would a crazy person even consider taking a break?

And it was a minor breakdown. No lopping of the ears. No incantations to what ever imaginary friends the uninformed assumed she had. It was more of a fit. The build up which came from taking pictures of corpses. Always corpses. Glazed prettied up corpses in the case of taxidermy. The morbidity of it was bound to get to her sometime.

She glanced back at the stag.

Wasn’t it’s head tilted more towards the left? Those antlers more towards the light than away?

“You’re fascinated with them. You think their world holds more mystery than the human world because they’ve been gone for so long. You think they have something there that people don’t. You are simply grieving. And you need to remember that.”

Her therapist at the time had said that.

“I don’t think it I know it.” She said out-loud, stepping closer to the deer. She pressed a gentle palm against it’s muzzle. Warm. The faint aroma of musk pine needles, mulch and dirt.

Those brown eyes didn’t flicker, but they looked wet. Like the surface of a boiled egg.

“Are you lonely?”

The stag breathed steadily now, chest rising imperceptibly. The whites of it’s eyes showing but she hadn’t noticed them move.

“I know you know lonely. Maybe you can’t think lonely. But you feel it.”

The artist stepped back.

“Did you die because you jumped over a barbed fence? Or is that what they say because they aren’t really you.”

The stag’s ears flicked upright, head stiffened and stoic, nostrils flaring. It didn’t seem to toil and struggle in it’s agonized state but regarded it’s surroundings. Uneasy yet with acceptance.

“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt but-”

The artist whipped around the collector behind her, face concerned.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Just to myself. Helps me work.” She said pleasantly, hands clasped at the back. She felt for the camera on the chair.

“Everything is alright?”

“What? Yeah, of course. I actually have a question though.” Her fingers curled over the strap.

“Yes?”

She clutched the camera close to her spine, heart thudding.

“Why do you have so many taxidermied animals?”

“Well it’s an art form. People like to admire them. They’re very life like.” He explained.

The artist could feel her knuckles turning white she was gripping the camera so hard. The assurance, the despairing assurance pulsed through her. Her eyes welled up.

I know what you’re doing. The barbed fence…all the animals, the taxidermist. Sick murderers. 

“Anything else?”

She swung the camera into his face, watched it collide into his cheekbones, shatter his nose. He crumpled to the ground blood pooling as quickly as water from a leaky tap. She glanced up at the stag, panting.

It was still. Eyes soft, head tilted. She reached out to stroke it’s chest. The fur was prickly, fake feeling.

Faux fur.

Because no one could find animals anymore. So they put up second rate carvings, statues of their beauty. Because people wouldn’t ever say it, amidst the whirl wind of a world moving too fast but people missed them. Regretted not missing them sooner.

No…no…no

She stepped towards the man, lip quivering. Reaching into his suit jacket she pulled out a tag. The tag she had glimpsed around his neck when he had so cheerfully greeted her at the entrance of the building.

Embossed and underlined:

Tour Guide

And the quote she had assumed was some sappy motto underneath.

-No recreation can bring back what we lost. But here our museum director’s strive to try.