by Berit Ellingsen


The actor is tall and lean, his eyes the blue of purity. His dark
eyelashes reach farther than the hair on his head.

But his legs are his best feature. They're long and thin. In
firefights he hunches over, ready to act out violence. Then his legs
look like crane legs, bending the wrong way. 

Once, they are almost crushed by an oncoming car. He jumps up on the
vehicle behind him and lifts his legs out of the way. The impact folds
the steel into a bird.

Does he always do his own stunts? His two previous series were
cancelled in the first season. He's thirty-five and graying.

In the season finale he's framed by enemies and must flee from law
enforcer colleagues. He leaps up on tropical roofs while howling
monkey men point-and-shoot at him.

The crane legs bend-bend-bend and drum over sun-warm tiles, cut like a
laser through the camera, across the ocean and into my eyes. I squawk.


Berit Ellingsen is a Korean-Norwegian writer whose work has appeared in various literary journals and anthologies, most recently or forthcoming in Asian Cha, Thunderclap, SmokeLong Quarterly, Metazen and decomP magazinE. Berit's debut novel, The Empty City, is a story about silence.

This story originally appeared in Issue 5.