It was the weirdest thing. One minute, you're having your breakfast, orange juice (no pulp, please), toast
(lightly brown, I said, not black, please remember this time), sausage (the patties, I told her, c'mon, how
many times do I have to tell you how I hate the links, they creep me out), then next, you're strangling your
wife over the kitchen counter.
I don't know what came over me.
I remember casually reading the paper, remember the snap of the paper as I turned the page (I hate the
creases, please don't crease that), remember the sensation of black print on my fingers (get me the
hand wipes dear, the antibacterial wipes).
And then Hilda was over the sink, my fingers around her neck, the telltale smudges of newsprint leaving my prints. It must
have been some sort of post-hypnotic thing. You know? Yeah, yeah, one of those brainwash deals like you see on the TV,
where you see the guy leading a normal life, and then suddenly someone asks, "Do you want to play some solitaire?" and
the next thing you know, the guy is shooting up the place with that blank look on his face.
Is my face blank? I know I have a nose and lips and stuff, I mean, but do I have a blank look on my face? A glaze over my
eyes?
Am I under someone's control?
Someone's control?
I was reading my paper. As I started wiping up around the crime scene (I guess that would be the appropriate term,
wouldn't it, "crime scene"), started wiping the prints off my wife's neck, I was trying to remember what I was doing just
minutes before. During my breakfast. I was having some fruit, she had served grapefruit (what were you thinking, you know
I hate grapefruit, it's too bitter) and then I was reading the paper and then I--
Of course. The newspaper. There was something in the text itself. I set down the wet towel, where you saw it sitting over
there by the sink, the water was still running because she was running water when it, that is, when I--
Anyway, the paper. I started looking for what might have triggered my episode. What might have released the post-hypnotic
suggestion that had been planted in my head while watching television, or -- you know what? -- it could have been planted
by one of those subliminal voices always talking during the music at the local department store. You know they do that,
right? Voices, always voices, but so low under the music that you can't actually hear it. Telling you stuff.
Telling you to do stuff.
So I was going through the page, the page I was reading when, well, you know, and I came across it:
The font.
They had changed something about the font. It used to have one certain look to it, and then they must have changed it,
because I can see the message now, plain as day. Well, you can't read it just flipping through the paper like that, you have
to focus, or rather, de-focus your eyes. The message is between the lines. It's one of those three-dimensional deals,
except instead of an elephant with a milkshake or a Klingon battle cruiser, it's a message that will appear.
No, honestly, it's right there. Just look. Just LOOK!
Where are you taking me? I am not making this up, just look at the paper and let your mind go, let your eyes wander and
you'll see what the font has to say to you.
It wasn't me. It was the fonts.
It wasn't me.
(lightly brown, I said, not black, please remember this time), sausage (the patties, I told her, c'mon, how
many times do I have to tell you how I hate the links, they creep me out), then next, you're strangling your
wife over the kitchen counter.
I don't know what came over me.
I remember casually reading the paper, remember the snap of the paper as I turned the page (I hate the
creases, please don't crease that), remember the sensation of black print on my fingers (get me the
hand wipes dear, the antibacterial wipes).
And then Hilda was over the sink, my fingers around her neck, the telltale smudges of newsprint leaving my prints. It must
have been some sort of post-hypnotic thing. You know? Yeah, yeah, one of those brainwash deals like you see on the TV,
where you see the guy leading a normal life, and then suddenly someone asks, "Do you want to play some solitaire?" and
the next thing you know, the guy is shooting up the place with that blank look on his face.
Is my face blank? I know I have a nose and lips and stuff, I mean, but do I have a blank look on my face? A glaze over my
eyes?
Am I under someone's control?
Someone's control?
I was reading my paper. As I started wiping up around the crime scene (I guess that would be the appropriate term,
wouldn't it, "crime scene"), started wiping the prints off my wife's neck, I was trying to remember what I was doing just
minutes before. During my breakfast. I was having some fruit, she had served grapefruit (what were you thinking, you know
I hate grapefruit, it's too bitter) and then I was reading the paper and then I--
Of course. The newspaper. There was something in the text itself. I set down the wet towel, where you saw it sitting over
there by the sink, the water was still running because she was running water when it, that is, when I--
Anyway, the paper. I started looking for what might have triggered my episode. What might have released the post-hypnotic
suggestion that had been planted in my head while watching television, or -- you know what? -- it could have been planted
by one of those subliminal voices always talking during the music at the local department store. You know they do that,
right? Voices, always voices, but so low under the music that you can't actually hear it. Telling you stuff.
Telling you to do stuff.
So I was going through the page, the page I was reading when, well, you know, and I came across it:
The font.
They had changed something about the font. It used to have one certain look to it, and then they must have changed it,
because I can see the message now, plain as day. Well, you can't read it just flipping through the paper like that, you have
to focus, or rather, de-focus your eyes. The message is between the lines. It's one of those three-dimensional deals,
except instead of an elephant with a milkshake or a Klingon battle cruiser, it's a message that will appear.
No, honestly, it's right there. Just look. Just LOOK!
Where are you taking me? I am not making this up, just look at the paper and let your mind go, let your eyes wander and
you'll see what the font has to say to you.
It wasn't me. It was the fonts.
It wasn't me.
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| "Study of Newspaper Fonts" |
| Originally published at INFUZE ... August 2005 |
© 2005 Chris Well
StudioWell
| ©2009 Chris and Erica Well |
STORIES and ART
