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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Farewell to Seafaring” Down in the Dirt, v153 (the January 2018 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book At Midnight the Down in the Dirt Jan.-Apr. 2018 collection book		get the 418 page Jan.-Apr. 2018 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Lost

Rajah-Nee Reynold

    Alan patted the trousers of his security uniform as the click-clack of his soles meeting tile resonated in the otherwise silent chamber of Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. He dropped the roll of duct tape on the green-clothed table as his partner piled several paintings on the floor. Alan strolled closer to the paintings. The pale mug of a man fashioned in a black cloak and matching hat stared back at him while his lady friend appeared to avoid eye-contact. Alan tapped the frame with his foot until one side slid and propped itself up on the tile, only to uncover Rembrandt’s mildly disapproving self-portrait.
    “Finished tying the bitch up?” Jerry asked. He placed a small statue of a bird in flight on top of the stacked paintings.
    “It’s a dude, man.”
    “So?” Jerry fought a yawn as he stretched both arms over his head. “Call ‘em like I see ‘em.” He swung his arms back and forth as he crept over a thin rope. He fell into the cushioned armchair and kicked his feet up on top of the glass enclosure housing notebooks and other trinkets.
    “Hey,” Alan said. “What are you doing?”
    “What does it look like I’m doing?”
    “Sitting on your ass when you should be doing your job.”
    Jerry snuggled into the chair. “Before you start scolding me about ‘doing my job’, snatch as many goods as I did––then we’ll talk.” He flicked his wrist at a random wall. “Go on.”
    Alan rolled his eyes, but removed Landscape with an Obelisk from its perch as he moved toward the indicated wall.
    “That’s not Rembrandt’s. It’s his student’s.”
    Alan stopped and raised an eyebrow at the man. “How do you know?”
    “You don’t do your homework before an exam?”
    Alan’s hand grazed over the frame as a scuff mark was left on the brown tile by the heel of his right shoe. “Whatever’s related to Rembrandt is sure to get us something.” He placed the painting next to Jerry’s stack. “Not to mention that it’s in a museum.” Alan continued his work as his partner settled back into the cushioned chair. He grabbed Degas’s Program for an Artistic Soiree and Three Mounted Jockeys, walked back to set them on his pile, and glided back to confiscate the Chinese beaker from its podium.
    Alan reached for Chez Tortoni, but paused as his hand brushed against Cortege aux Environs de Florence. He took the Degas frame in both hands and balanced it in one as the other graced the glass from top to bottom. His hand closed in a pencil position and stroked the bridge forward and back. He scratched at the darks and brushed over the lights, trailed the wistful figures with the tips of his index and thumb, and pressed against the ‘smudges’ with all fingers.
    “Hey, Al!” Jerry said, his breath against Alan’s ear as he peeked over the taller man’s shoulder. “Wha’cha doing?”
    Alan shrugged. “Nothing. Let’s finish this.” He handed the painting to Jerry and proceeded to take Chez Tortoni. He passed the frame and beaker to Jerry and walked away.
    “I ain’t your freaking mail boy!” Jerry rolled his eyes as he turned to the stacked paintings. “You could have at least gotten some nice shit,” Jerry said as he took a box cutter from his pocket. He stabbed at the corner of Vermeer’s The Concert. “These are ugly!”
    “Like yours are any better,” Alan said as he adjusted his hold on The Storm on the Sea of Galilee. “But yeah. People think the ugliest stuff is the greatest, so the uglier, the better.”
    “Weirdos.”
    “Yep.” Alan chuckled, reaching for Degas’ La Sortie de Pesage. He ran his index finger down the glass, traced the lines of a transparent figure on the right end of the painting, and brushed over the blue filler that stood out amongst the browns and tans. His finger hovered over the glass and made its way down to the blank coat of the transparent figure. Just as his finger crept closer to the glass, a sneeze shot through the quiet of the night, and Alan’s heart skipped several beats.
    “Hey!” Jerry said, looking over his shoulder. “What’s taking so long?”
    “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.” Alan removed the painting from its display, and placed a hand on the glass. “I guess...it really wasn’t meant to be, was it?”

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