The draft legend

Kori

Jesse                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Travis                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Valentina 

Dani

Jacob P.

Amanda

Jacob G.

Charles

    I opened my eyes and exhaled.  The cabin of my car filled with smoke and for a moment my eyes watered.  The bastard was right, the flavor was somewhat nutty.  I removed my glasses and rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand.  Behind my blurred vision and a cloud of smoke I was secluded.  The loneliness of myopia. I rifle through my ashtray, shifting bottlecaps, pennies, and straw wrappers to the side, until I find a quarter. I exit my vehicle and deposit the coin in the parking meter. Carefully looking both ways I cross the street. Anxiety kicks in, what possibilities wait for me inside? The door swings open, and I enter my own personal heaven, and hell. As far as I am concerned this is my home, my place of residence. A house lay pushed far off the main road, tucked in between an alleyway and the closest entrance to the local interstate.  So curiously placed, the house exists as a mere ghost among newly renovated condominiums.

     5AM. It's 5AM. 5AM... Sweat streaks down my forehead. Is it really 5AM. Could it really be? I remove my clothing and climb into bed. The moon and the sun are both visible in the early morning sky. The dim spectral grey of the moon competes for my attention while the dripping sunlight of dawn casts orange light through the clouds. It is 5AM. Good Lord! I lay my head on the pillow, and I turn to look at you. You are asleep. I kiss your forehead. You murmur and clutch the bedsheet.Your name is Essie Sophia Taylor. Your name reminds me of a slave holding on to dignity in the worse of conditions. In a life of servitude you possess that inner smile of understanding; a self  knowledge and truth about your place in the world. Sometimes I say your name and I think of Sophia Lauren, of star quality, of absolute beauty that men like I desire. An understanding slave with sex appeal is a fair description of you. You are 24 years old. You are a street hooker with a serious heroin addiction.  When I first saw you you came up to my car. I was looking for a short cut, I was lost. You look like an angel transending our God forsaken city. You were wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, it was unbuttoned to the center of your chest. You wore a light colored summer skirt and sandals. You were carrying a big purse that looked heavy. If I recall you had bracelets on both wrists and wooden beads around your neck.  I exhale and resist the temptation to wake you and tell you I love you.  I turn onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, close my eyes and listen. The whoosh of high-speed automobiles propelling through space is faintly audible in the distance. I try to ignore it, and for a moment I become lost and found in the monotonous hum of my surroundings: the cold wheeze of the air conditioning unit, the incessant beeping of electronic appliances, non-stop buzzing mobile phones, the guttural roar of the construction machinery renovating the house next door. A wave of panic consumes me. I jolt up out of bed, sweat-sticky, trembling. I am thinking about the day my Father was murdered. I can hardly remember what is real and what is fantasy. I was only A Boy!

 The abandoned buildings were shells of inhabitants past like spider webs with no spiders.  The hot tar of the street was almost squishy and The Boy thought about chewing it.  Clouds of smoke billowed from high-rise building fires melting into clouds of clouds in the ominous afternoon sky.  Anger and fear hung in the air like a hot fog.  The Man sat down in the middle of the street cross-legged and smiled at the bun toasting he instantly received from the hot tar.  Over easy or sunny-side up?  The Boy stood back fifteen feet away and off to the side watching The Man with incredulous incredulity.  Trying to know the reasons.  Like, why is there so much bird shit on this street?  The boy thought about chewing the tar again.  This time with bird-shit condiments.  The empty store-front windows that lined the narrow street reflected the scene and gave the sense of multiple camera angles.  The Convoy was making its way towards the Man in the Road.

     The Boy leaned against a street lamp and stared on with a look of bewilderment mixed with an awareness of imminent doom.  He looked like someone who had been chewing asphalt with bird-shit condiments.  His white t-shirt shone on the empty street like a bright light contrasting all of the drab of browns and grays.  As the noise of the vehichles (tanks?) and shouting grew nearer his heart beat faster and faster.

    Men on Horses with multiple weapons tethered to their bulging dirty uniforms rolled up the street looking to flatten things.  The Boy walked slowly backwards blending into the shadows of the over-hang of jutted building jigsaw pieces.  Three men trickled ahead of the pack to The Man Sitting in the Street.  Words were spoken.  The Man in the street didn’t move.  Dirty Uniform in the Middle shot him in the head.  The Man on the street jolted backwards as if he had been shot in the head.  Thump thump.  The gun shot echoed and faded away into loud silence.  All was still…for a moment.  The Boy went to the middle of the road…and sat down…cross legged.

    I inhale, exhale deeply, loud enough to drown out all other sound. I hear your voice. Your saying, "Sometimes, and sometimes I hate saying things because it makes them too real.  I just want to rest.  Mostly I'm afraid that my little triumphs will change nothing.  There's no satisfaction on stating how things are. Every field of logical study is based on a set of assumptions that tend to streamline reality. Art is the only thing that makes sense to me, and yet I worry that I'm not original enough to come up with anything. I have the ruler but no internal vision..." I turn to look at you once again. You are tightening your brow. I put my arm around you to comfort you. Staring into the skin of your eyelids, I consider that you are dreaming. I reminisce on my own dreams past, those that felt as “real” as my Fathers murder, as this moment feels to me right now. I close my eyes. My anxiety begins to creep up on me again as I attempt to appreciate the idea that although my body is right beside yours, we are individually consumed by our own seperate universes. Feeling desolate and strange, I yearn to join your world or to bring you back to mine. After a moment’s pause, I dismiss the former as unrealistic and the latter selfish. Twenty minutes of silent cacophony. Shivering cold, I wearily slide my way out of bed, and throw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

      The floor creaks under my feet. I walk down the stairs and savor the feeling of wood beneath my soles. Too exhausted to bother with the laces of my shoes, I slip them on and grab my key. I make sure the door is locked before I step off the porch and immerse in the concrete chaos. My first impression of the city is composed of serenity and malaise, unpeeling my eyelids to gaze upon the trees and the telephone poles and the buildings and the roads. I start to walk. I’m watching my feet hit the sidewalk, barely paying attention to where I’m going. A voice calls out: “WATCH IT, BUDDY."  A guy with a motorcycle surpassed me, lost control of the high speed bike and roll over in front me! That was a real wake-up! And in front of my panicked eyes he stood up, walked to the side walk and sat down. His motorcycle continued his way with full speed in front of the K-circle plaza and trashed into the ditch. Wow! I wasn’t sure if I was still asleep or this is an action movie, but I was definitely not seeing this happening in front of me! Arrival of the police and the Fire Rescue made it real; they questioned the drivers, the neighbors and took care of the motorcyclist. He had some bruises but seemed all right.

    Cars, everywhere. Engines belch and grunt and push forward, these gigantic shiny monster-vehicles operated by caffeine-perky mammalians, white-knuckled at the wheel--contorted skeletons, pressing cell phones against their faces. I continue to walk. I hear no birds, no rustling leaves. All I can hear are the violent whiplash thrusts of cars zooming past each other. I try to ignore it. Sweat streaks down my forehead. I remember your sleeping body in my bed, and I yearn to look into your face. But I have begun to cross the street. My heart stops, and every atom of my existence is galvanized into a state of terror. Is this terror or fantasy. Look at this! A girl! A beauty!  

   She sat there on the verge of insanity underneath the soldiers of clouds lining the sky above her.  Sitting atop the concrete railing of the bridge, overlooking the sea-foam green water of the gulf, she contemplates the cliché:  "why not?"  -  "why not what?", she wasn't quite sure of, but nothing seemed to matter anymore not even the light which she was basking in, the sustainer of her existence - the one who hid from the darkness - but also made it disappear.

   They seemed to look after her. The clouds, sun, moon, stars . . . trees too or at least she thought they did. It was a comfort offered to herself, though they didn't seem to be watching anymore.  The sun is hiding behind the clouds peeking like a peeping Tom.  The stars are blinded by light pollution.  The moon hides behind the Earth and in the sun. The trees are being perpetually cut down and the clouds hide behind themselves.

     Cars scream behind her, hissing like mad bees.  

     It doesn't matter 'why' or 'why not,' she thinks.  It doesn't matter.  We're all in our bubbles and some of us share bubbles, but in the end - you die alone.  Old, young, here, there  - we all die alone in our minds.  Nobody ever wants to talk about death.  Seated on the edge of a bridge thinking about 'the end', her own 'end' , by herself - and she wondered if this is what they referred to as 'suicidal thoughts'.  She laughed.  She missed laughing. The clouds began to pass by now with greater speed as the wind picked up and some of the solid puffs broke apart and began to litter the sky in a mitosis fashion.  The sun hid behind the clouds as it drifted and sunk into the horizon, painting the little white soldiers peachy-pink. 

"What a feeling," she said aloud.  To be painted peachy-pink and with that thought , she inhaled an immensely deep breath , stood on top of the concrete edge , turned to face toward the inside of the bridge cluttered with cars and leaned backwards , falling into the water below . 

  I run to the other side of the street and jerk my face to the left to observe the splash of this girl this vision. The herd of raging automobiles emerging on the horizon. This is going to be the end of her life. Love, Memory, and the Universe itself to be converted instantly into a heap of flesh and bones and flattened organs floating in a puddle of blood upon the water. Right here in the middle of the city/bay. That can’t be right. That can’t be the end of her, we haven't even said hello. This can’t be it. I keep running toward her perch. This is not the end. Sidewalk. Slow down. Stop and sit. Difficult to breathe. Pain in my chest. The fear. The fear of death envelops my consciousness. I open my eyes. I see: your face. I am startled. We're in bed. Your eyelids peek open. I look down at my body. I am naked. I look out the window. Our faces touch. I kiss your mouth. The moon is no longer visible in the sun-drenched sky.