A Flatlining Shrill

29.11.2019

With works by Annie Åkerman, Cecilia Bjartmar-Hylta, Mike D'Ippolito, Sarah Księska, Brianna Leatherbury, Max Popov, Pedram Sazesh, Helena Tan

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“Good afternoon,” announces a person from media relations. “We will now take questions.” The speaker steps up to the podium, its fake oak laminate chipping away at the bottom, having been dragged and wiggled into place countless times, and its countertop barely visible under the twenty or so precariously stacked microphones, all pointing upward toward the speaker’s face. Huddling a few steps away, reporters stand anxiously as flanks of cameras continue to click and record. Today’s press briefing has been set outside, exposing the crowd of officials, representatives, and media outlets to the first signs of early winter. Heavy, gray clouds fill the sky, bringing with it a cutting air, staggering lungs still unaccustomed to the cold. “We have no further comments regarding that matter,” spouts the speaker, answering the first of a series of questions. “I can’t answer that at this time.” “They have not been identified to the public.” As soon as a response is given, hands immediately shoot up, jostling for the speaker’s attention. “Yes?” the speaker asks, pointing with a limp arm at a reporter standing off to the side. “Thank you,” says the reporter, their voice tinged with half gratitude, half satisfaction in being called. As the reporter begins their three-part question, the speaker starts to hear some buzzing right behind their head. Not thinking much of the sound, they continue to speak. “Look. The reason why I can’t give you an absolute guarantee is because the situation is changing. For argument's sake…” Suddenly a large fly appears in the speaker’s field of vision. The air-borne insect hovers around the podium and the speaker before seeking refuge on the front of the speaker’s coat. The size of the lapel pin, it’s fine strands of hair jerk along its black and ashy beige abdomen as its rubs its legs together, its beady red eyes taking everything in. “A fly in this season?” the speaker thinks before catching their own distraction and shaking the thought out of their head. Casually they flick their wrist, shooing the fly away. “For argument’s sake, if we were to suddenly see a very life-threatening incident, they are at liberty to take the necessary actions.” “Next,” the speaker pivots, evading the rest of the last reporter’s questions. As the press briefing stretches on, the fly reappears. Lured by the speaker’s warm breath, it dives toward their face. “We have no further developments.” First at the canal of their right ear. “We will follow up with you as soon as possible.” Then at the bridge between their brows. “I suggest you speak to my colleague after this briefing.” Now at the corner of their open mouth. Irritation begins to curdle underneath the speaker’s skin. “That’s correct.” Buzzing… “What was your question again?” Buzzing… “We are monitoring the situation.” Buzzing... “THIS FUCKING FLY!!” The buzzing stops, the fly disappears. Bug-eyed and slack-jawed, the speaker stares at the camera operators and reporters, all dumbfounded by what just occurred. Then the speaker looks down at the microphones, toppled over by a violent hand attempting to swat the fly. While some lay scattered on top of the podium, the rest are strewn across the floor, still ringing from the impact. After a few weighted seconds, the speaker straightens their posture and composes their face. “Thank you guys, I’ll see you at the next briefing.” As the speaker walks off, questions erupt again. The reporters press their bodies against each other even harder in hopes of getting the last word. The person from media relations returns, announcing when to reconvene. And the cameras, in unison, slowly pan across for a few paces before eventually pausing and shutting down. In the midst of all of the commotion, the fly lands, unnoticed, on the head of one of the fallen microphones. Now lying still, it gently buzzes into the soft cushioning of the mic cover and straight onto the airwaves. With text by Minh Bui and image by Jonathan Chacón