(Artwork and words are copyright to Philip and Patrick McNulty)
This is a snippet of the story my twin is trying to get published right now. If you like it, you can go see more of his work here: http://mcnultytwo.blogspot.com/
The image above is the artwork I created for the piece and I hope you enjoy:
There's something I should tell you, comrade, so let me start from the beginning.
I offered Vladimir a cigarette, but he did not take it. He showed me a Lux. I offered him a light, the least for which he took graciously from me, and it pleased me immensely. A small, red glow ignited the grey, ashy tip of his Lux as he drew in a deliberate and sensitive breath. I asked him if he could recite some of his poetry, some of my favorites, from "Morning" to "Night," "To His own Beloved Self." He began with the latter and I sat there like a dumb child. He read it with such depravity, such contrition—just so disconsolately—it made my eyes well with small tears. But there was such a freshness and sincerity to it all. It was simply magnificent.
"Were I as quiet as thunder," Vladimir said, "how I'd wail and whine!"
I lifted the loose crimson mask dangling over my head above my nose and pursed my lips. I raised the cigarette to my lips as Vladimir continued to traipse the delicate lines of his poetry over the small curves of smoke in the air. I should apologize if my words become too whimsical at times. I'm not particularly a poet—a far cry from one, actually—but it's hard to ignore the temptations of poetry's waters when such a great artist is sitting next to you. I don't know. I feel a little embarrassed even trying. But, it is Mayakovsky! Mayakovsky!
"If I were as dim as the sun, night I'd drill with the rays of my eyes."
I laughed heartily and mightily, and I'm sure Vladimir thought me insane. But he didn't stutter in his reading. He didn't even look at me crooked. What a true comrade!
I took another inhalation of cigarette smoke as Vladimir recited the last line. "…by what Goliaths was I begot—I, so big and by no one needed."
I know that particular poem ends with a question, but every time I hear it or read it, it always sounds more like a statement to me. I lifted my mask and took a mighty inhalation of the cigarette and breathed it slowly out into the air. My mask fell carelessly over my mouth and I felt disrespectful when I turned to Vladimir and, with a smile, nodded to him. I felt badly about it—not letting him see my smile, that is. I assume he didn't. I should have lifted my mask to show him how enlightened I was—even after hearing that poem for what amounted to an insurmountable number of times. It is refreshing to me every time I hear it, like a cool breeze on a lukewarm day. I'm sure it went without mentioning to Vladimir, of course. But oftentimes, it is necessary to hear. I suppose I'll tell him tomorrow.
I dug into my coat pocket. I grabbed an ancient, eight-times folded poster with the intentions of unraveling it in front of Vladimir and telling him the story behind it. It was a fascinating story, one I wanted dearly to tell Vladimir, but everyday was the same. I'd be interrupted by a knock on the train car door and I'd never tell him the history behind the poster.
Today was no different.
A knock on the door abruptly stalled my story before I could even begin it. Bogolomov, who was a small man in height and stature with a grey bristle ring of hair surrounding the completely hairless, polished tip of his head, entered the train car with a fair amount of trepidation.
"Is it prepared, Bogolomov?" I asked.
He nodded, and his nervous, antsy eyes stumbled into their natural frenzy. He was quite fidgety, so I always felt compelled to be stern with him, which is why I asked him if it was ready rather coldly. You must know he is quite a good man, a man I trusted my life with during the War. He is also a confident man, but he hasn't shown it since we made our journey to America. He is the kind of man who needs to be treated with a fair firmness. It's all to build him up, to remind him that—no matter where he is—he is still the same Bogolomov inside; the comrade I relied so heavily on in Russia; the comrade who was fearless, dignified, and self assured. But it has taken longer than I had hoped. And watching his pupils dance in his head like that, it's unnerving.
"Yes, Comrade—"
"No." The grey tip of my cigarette burst red. "It's Captain, Bogolomov."
Bogolomov's uneasy, nervous eyes fluttered rapidly. He avoided my eyes—my only facial feature unhidden by the deep red cowl—like a ship avoiding the onslaught of a hurricane. "Of course, Captain." His cheeks became rosy. He shook his head in disgust and a wavering, uncomfortable smile took shape on his face. "My apologies."
I took one final inhalation of the cigarette and released its smoke slowly. "You were saying?" I flicked the edge of the cigarette with my thumb violently. Ash crumbled into a thousand small, irrelevant pieces, its descent hardly noticeable.
"The new poster is ready," Bogolomov said.
