Rocky Sea

The building has the aesthetic of 70s style architecture with flat rooftops and minimal flair, a structure that does not hide its boxiness, but rather flaunts it. It is an apartment building with about 60 individual units organized into three structures of 30 apartments each. The three distinct box-shaped areas are pushed together like cluster squares; from above, they look like a disjointed letter T.  Each building has three stories. Along the edge of each level is a hallway-balcony in front of the doors that lead to each unit, a style popular in motels across the United States. The hallway/balcony is about four feet wide and has a three foot tall black iron fence which delineates the edge. 
The building is constructed and decorated with differing shades and types of wood.  The front doors of each unit are a deep cherry wood which are trimmed along the edges with a paler blond wood with a glossy veneer. The walls of the building which face the balcony are lined with alternating planks of wood, each with a unique wood grain and color.  Each is shined to perfection.
I am standing on the balcony of the third story and look down from what seems like a great distance. Earth is not below, rather, I see a ragged reef of huge gray and white boulders with waves that lap against their sides. 
The assemblage of rocks stretches into the distance and fades into the horizon. The ocean water is a mixture of different colors, in places looking dark blue, in others spotted with turquoise. White surf spreads along the edges of the boulders. From where I stand, it looks like sea and stone, dry land is a memory.  Some of the giant rocks are in a haphazard circle and have created small, protected swimming holes delineated from the larger sea.  I can see three people in one of the swimming holes. From where I stand, their bodies are small as dust.
I hold on to the balcony railing, afraid I will somehow fall off and into the water.  My knuckles are pale and my hands dig into the blunt edges of the metal bars.  It seems like the entire complex is tipping, like at any moment my feet might come off the ground and only my grip can protect me from flipping out and crashing into the rocky water below.

Coffee Shop

He held a steaming white paper cup of hot black coffee in his hands. He held the disposable cup with both hands, cradling it with reverence, taking slow, long sips of the bitter dark liquid. He sipped slowly, tasting the soil where it had grown, his tongue finding remnants from the sweat of campesinos and hot sun and blue skies dotted with light passing clouds. The cup was nestled between his long fingers and wide palms, held steady without its plastic lid so the steam was free to rise for a brief journey. It shot up from the coffee in swirled blasts of continuous vapor, rising, leaping and curling, twisting in on itself for more than half a foot until it drifted and dispersed, transforming itself.
He sat in a short padded leather armchair, the contemporary conservative style of the type that could be found in lawyer’s offices. Its lines were smooth and inoffensive, its simple shape inviting. It had huge overstuffed armrests, providing the place for the man’s elbows to rest while his hands held onto the coffee; steam jumping from the cup, creating ethereal patterns over his face, steaming him with warmth.
His back was facing a large plate glass window that faced a narrow cement patio with a few wrought iron tables and chairs. A few fabric covered umbrellas rattled in the breeze. Just behind him, the window was painted with a semi-opaque image of blue ice cubes falling into a plastic cup that had been painted with a pale white color. The light from the window behind him almost made a silhouette of his shape, though there was light coming from the interior of the coffee shop that gently filled in the dark corners.
The man’s face was old and weathered by time and age. The skin around the edges of his mouth sagged, though he held onto his manly dignity, holding it firmly with both hands, gripping it with his long fingers and wide palms. His eyes were covered in wide dark sunglasses, disguising the places his eyes wandered, though the tilt of his head gave a small indication when he watched a tall blond nurse walk through the front glass door. The skin on his hands and face were pink and though his hair had thinned and turned the color of pure snow, he still had enough to part on the right side and comb over towards the left.
His slender legs were crossed at the ankles and covered in pale blue jeans. Feet hugged in black socks were tucked into brown leather shoes. He wore a pale blue sweater and a white collared shirt that just peaked out over the high neckline of his sweater. There was a belly paunch that was round and full, covered completely in pale blue wool. He checked his watch every so often, keeping both hands on the cup, but turning his wrist up towards his eyes.
Jazz, infused with horns and the low grumbling of a large black man, filled the room with its melody. Steamers from the espresso machine hissed, bringing cold milk into frothy bubbles of foam. There were several circular wooden tables and chairs scattered through the room. Solitary people stared into the glowing screen of their laptops. Next to the man with the sunglasses, a mother sat staring into her illuminated Blackberry while her baby slept in a stroller beside her. Throughout the room, everyone was engaged, enthralled with their own electronics, it was just the old man that sat, holding his coffee with both wide palms, watching as people walked through the door towards the counter and then eventually left out the same door with a drink in their hands.
Old time jazz and blues flowed from the speakers, and the man sat, holding the steaming cup with no lid, holding it with his long weathered fingers and wide, capable palms.

Abandoned Gas Station

It is nighttime, dark and cold, the air tinged with the electricity that comes before a storm. It is a small town on the edge of a highway in the middle of a great flat expanse of dry land. The town is a tiny rest spot for travelers and a recurring source of sustenance for the few local inhabitants. There are two open gas stations, each with a corresponding convenience store. There are a few other stores and a car mechanic shop, all closed for the night. Few cars drive by, and even fewer stop. The traffic light flashes red continuously and the pedestrian lights have all been turned off. The tall dry grass on the edge of the road bends backwards with the force of the wind and some leaves float away towards the outer darkness.
In the little gas station on the north side, an old man slumps backwards against an old rickety chair, his head bobbing up and down with the weight of tired drowsiness. A single man fills the tank of his new red car, calmly surveying his surroundings as he leans against the back door. A large truck is parked on the side, its massive bulk forming a temporary barrier against the wind. A small brown cat scurries behind some large dumpsters behind the building.
In the gas station to the south, a fat woman sits waiting for clients. She reads a celebrity news magazine and sips from a plastic cup of coffee. She looks out to the street every so often and then back to her magazine and the dream world of the movie stars. There is a small sedan parked on the side and a large fat man sleeps soundly behind the wheel, little trickles of saliva dripping off the side of his mouth and down his chin.
A block further down, there is a third gas station, dark and abandoned. A light blue pickup truck is parked on the street in front of it, all its wheels are flat and the lights have been broken. The pumps are rusty and their design is from another era. The windows of the building have also been broken and the inside has been completely pillaged. An old cash register and some dirty ripped up newspapers are all that remain.
I sit on the step that leads to the forgotten main register. I am wearing a thick black jacket, the hood pulled back towards my shoulders, black pants and black shoes and a white shirt. Around my neck is a tiny porcelain mushroom, painted in with many colored lines and dangling from an elastic black cord. My back is resting against the wall and my eyes shift slowly back and forth between the dark cold street and the girl that rests in my arms.
She has a small fragile brown body, black hair to her shoulders and a delicate soft face. Her eyes are turned downward as she presses her cheek against my chest. She is wearing a black skirt, a light brown blouse, and flat black shoes. Her body trembles every so often and mine trembles in response. Her breath comes in loud gasps and tiny little sobs. I hold her head with my hand and softly caress her black hair and her forehead. I press her tightly towards me and she responds by pushing into me, as if she wants to sink completely into my heart and find a true hiding place in there, away from the wind and the cold and the loneliness.
Every few minutes, the wind makes a loud sound as it flows through the desolate gas station and the cold rush sends a collective shiver through both our bodies. She looks up at me as if to confirm that I’m still there and I look down and continue to caress her hair. I nod and her cheek returns to my chest.

Little Town

A few streets crossing each other, a few of them scattering off tangentially away from the center, a tiny web in the midst of the forest. There is no sense of planning. Instead it seems that the streets were just added to each other as the need arose, some of them covered in asphalt, some of them still dirt roads. There are little signs on the corners to indicate the names. They are painted in black letters over white metal, each one with little flourishes to indicate a sense of history, of a time that has passed.
There are many small houses. Each is adorned with tiny mementos, little statues, tinkling chimes, a clay gnome permanently smiling at the passers-by. Dogs are barking unseen from some backyard, their sound seeming to mix in with the faded paint of the old houses resonating with each other and lulling you into sleepiness. A cat runs underneath the parked cars, then emerges back onto the street a few cars up the road. The sidewalk is tall, about the height of three steps above the street. There are little cement stairways every once in a while, each one leading to a lonely porch. Most of the doors have metal screens and most of the screens are broken. Behind the doors, there is furniture covered in white sheets and an air of forgetfulness. The only sounds here are the dog in the distance and the dusty wind moving the blinds back and forth.
The longest street that runs through the center of the town is called "Main Street". The one that crosses it is called "Park". There is a cluster of little stores near the center. They sell trinkets from other times, new handicrafts and some art reproductions. There is a coffee shop in a corner. An old hippie sits outside, drinking coffee and striking up conversations with anyone that passes by. Little groups of teenagers walk around, no more than 5 of them at a time. They are all dressed in jeans and tshirts, they make jokes every once in a while but they are mostly quiet. They stare at the stores and the houses, hoping something will happen. But nothing really does. Here and there a lonely adult walks calmly from one place or another, saying hello warmly to whoever walks by them, then dissappearing again.
The streets that lead off, away from the town center, get more and more sparse. There are trees and bushes that flank the road, and sometimes hide the constructions behind them. The houses become larger but less well taken care of. There are broken cars sitting outside, the hoods up, the wheels long gone, a large brick in their place. A car tire swings from a tree, a large black dog on a chain barks constantly and angrily. Someone is banging a hammer on a piece of metal. A woman is calling out a man’s name. Metal tools are spread out on the driveway, next to a deep stain of grease. Loud laughter and angry calls, scattered bits of conversation and the sound of a indignant radio jock, all vibrating together, all flowing into each other through the dry bushes. There is a sense of trapped desperation, of lost hopes and slowly decomposing dreams.
There is a gated community down one the roads, a few miles away from the town center, guarded by people in uniforms. Inside, the houses are all shiny and very well kept. They are crowded into small cul-de-sacs… with 3 or 4 houses to each one. There are at least 3 cars per house, parked outside in the gently curving driveway. The cars are also new and shiny, and they smell of luxury. There are a few chimes here and there, but mostly the houses here are very streamlined, it would be easy to confuse one of them with any other. Dark wood and bright white paint, metal yard furniture and the silence that comes with the absence of dogs.
It is afternoon. The sun is high in the sky and the whole place smells of sweat and dust. In the air itself you can almost see the transparent thick waves of heat as they slide around the town, caressing the wooden walls like forgotten lovers coming back to find their lost object of desire, finding loneliness instead. A car rolls up or down every once in a while, but very rarely. When they do, they drive slowly and carefully. The heat, the dust and the absence of wind gives the whole place an air of stillness, of stagnation, of things that have been like this forever and will remain so, drenched in heavy sunlight and loud silence.