Beach at Sunrise

Several miles away from our perch on the edge of the Pacific are a row of cliffs that rise steeply from the ocean waters. They are a uniform purple, their thick shape emerging from the early morning mist of salted spray that hovers over the choppy waves like a silvery ghost. Behind the cliffs, the sky is pink with yellow undertones, a brilliance cast from the emerging sun still hidden behind the low hills to the east which promises the warmest of days.
The ocean stretches out for miles towards the horizon, the waves frosty blue with bright white caps which glow intensely, reflecting the brightness of the sky. As the dawn rolls in, right on time, the wind whips up a trail of moisture from the peaks, leaving an ephemeral white trail behind them which lingers for a moment then disappears into the water and air. The light above plays on the water's surface, casting a hint of pink  which creates a soft glassy hue. This is also true for the water left cascading backwards on the sand to the sea, though the shades of pink vary depending on the amount of water on any given area of cold beach.
I watch the tiny shape of a person on the sand, perhaps a few hundred feet away. They are silhouetted and black against the glowing ground.
Lines of seagulls hover just inches above the water line, coasting on the breeze, barely moving a wing.
We sit on a dirt pullout, a single fence of wooden posts spaced five feet apart and connected by two thick jute ropes spaced a foot and a half apart. A white van is parked to the right of us, the driver taking photos of the landscape with a black phone. To the left, a woman has a towel wrapped around her waist as she undresses and squeezes into a black spongy wetsuit.  Along the coast, about a hundred feet to the left are a row of cars where surfers are in various stages of undress with towels providing a modicum of modesty.
There are a few surfers in the water, about a few hundred feet away. They look smaller than the seagulls, like black pebbles amid the influx of the white capped waves and dark blue waters.

Overpass

I am standing on a cold cement sidewalk in the massive shadow of a freeway overpass.  It is daylight and the sky is blue, but from where I stand, the wind has a biting chill.  There are multiple cement ramps high overhead, roads in the sky held up by thick round columns that delve deep into the earth.  Not a bit of sunlight makes it past the four overpasses that from my vantage point, seem to be stacked upon each other.  
The sidewalk reverberates with the thousands of cars driving overhead, coming into me through the sole of my shoes and then up through my legs, venturing further within. The sound of the combined motors, all swooshing and speeding so high above is like a mechanized river, sometimes fading in and out with strength, but never ceasing. 
On the street in front of me, shadowed too by the freeway overpasses above, is a white car.  It is the kind of vehicle used for commercial purposes.  The kind with tools and extra seats for capable men and a spot for a water cooler in the back.  It is a new, still shiny, clean and white, baring none of the scratches of a well-worn vehicle. 
There are a dozen police milling around the vehicle.  Some have climbed into it, pulling open the screwed in seats.  Others look through the dozens of compartments along the sides, pulling out tools, inspecting them, holding up greasy bottles to the light. 
Inside the car I can see a brown skinned man crouched in the compartment below where a seat cushion would have hidden him. The vinyl seat is still in a police officer’s hand as he shouts orders. The man is wearing jeans and a white t-shirt.  He remains in the fetal position he had been in as the shelter is revealed, stunned, blinking at the new source of light.  Several Latin men are already on the sidewalk, laying flat against the ground, their arms handcuffed behind their backs.
The cops' voices are loud and harsh.  The motors of the half dozen police cars are still running, their lights are on, the bright colors of their screaming sirens diffuse into the day. The smell of car exhaust is strong, unchanging despite the steady breeze.
People in business suits walk by the scene undisturbed.  Most give only a passing glance to the white commercial vehicle and its occupants. Women in gray dresses and lipstick, men carrying briefcases and sacks of takeout from nearby restaurants.  Barely a glance at the scene. A breeze blows past me, sending chills over my sandaled feet. The chill rises, finding my chest. 
The police men are pale and distant, uncaring in this bust spawned only by human need.  Their bodies are big and covered in muscle, covered once again by thin blue fabric.  Their guns are black, somehow glistening even in the shade of the multiple freeways overhead. 
My white skirt blows in the wind, tempting my calves with a delicate touch.  I am cold, standing in the shade of a thousand moving cars.

The Yellow Hills

The six lane highway is sandwiched between two hillsides whose peaks angle away from each other, creating the illusion that I am driving through a long bowl with only two sides.  The earth angles smoothly upwards, symmetrically but in opposite directions towards the peaks one hundred feet high.  The hills seem perfectly aligned, cut from the earth for this long highway that takes no turns or deviations.  It is a straight line to the mountains, hidden now by angry clouds.  And though man has tried for symmetry, nature has taken over once again, bringing chaos into the optimistic order of carefully designed things. 

The hills are blooming brightly with wild mustard plants that reach five feet in the air.  They wave in the wind, bending easily on their thin stalks. The yellow blossoms are like an electric lamp blaring loudly into the midday sky.  They cover the hills in a dense world of vibrating yellow, painting a nearly perfect blanket of uniform color, a pattern changing with each new breathy gust.  Moving not in unison, but in a myriad of shapes and directions that change continuously, rapidly, leaving not a moment for reflection.

Ahead is a gray sky. It is dark and verging towards black, just one step from madness. Huge puffs of water filled clouds hang overhead, threatening with their very color.  Towards the right, to the horizon in the east, the clouds are bubbly and pale gray. I can see one small patch of blue fighting through a thick blanket, another color adding to the living palette.

On the right side of the highway, at the base of the hillside, are the plastic orange cones and metal road signs of imminent construction, though not a soul in a hardhat walks beyond the temporary cement barricade that separates the road from the construction zone. Piles of stacked lumber lay waiting, sitting beside metal bound packets of rebar and thin poles, themselves wrapped in sheets of thick plastic wrapping.  Small peaks of sand and dirt wait for use below blue plastic tarps, the edges flapping just slightly in the wind

I stare out though the slightly dirty windshield. The contrasting colors of the world losing no brilliance despite the thin gauze of accumulated dust and orange splattered innards of unfortunate bugs.  I avoid turning my head, but through peripheral vision I see the red, black and white of passing cars beside the windows. 

Rural Road

The car is parked along the dirt shoulder of a faded asphalt two-lane highway. Cut through a narrow valley, the road is surrounded by trees that rise up into squat hills that eventually form jagged mountains.
We sit sandwiched between a forest comprised mostly of evergreens, though they are interspersed with deciduous trees that have started to turn with the approach of winter.
A spectacle of red, orange and yellow are beautifully mixed with the constant green of the pines. The canopy of foliage is so thick that on the ground the light between the tree trunks is almost black even though there is still a bit of daylight left.  The yellow of the changing leaves matches the dotted lines dividing the highway.
The forest surrounding us is thick, unpunctuated by any houses or roads, though I can smell the unmistakable scent of burning logs in a fireplace somewhere in the distance, the scent of memories wafts in even though the windows of the car are closed tight.
There are no street lamps or the bright double headlights of an approaching car in the coming twilight.  Just stillness all around. The sky is a constantly fading blue without a single cloud and the first glimmering star of the night is straight ahead and billions of miles away. The frosty air of deep fall seeps in through the glass windows and I keep my hands buried in the pockets of my fur-lined corduroy jacket.
The faded light of the day outside has covered the interior of the car in a shadow of dim light. The three people in the back seat are blurred shadows without distinct shapes and their silence is heavy. 
Beside me in the passenger seat is a woman with short blond hair and a chiseled chin that looks like stone, she could easily be mistaken for a petite man given the angles of her face.
A few birds silhouetted in black fly over the highway and towards the mountain peak to the left of the car. They are too far away to hear their cries. 
A key ring with seven copper keys is hanging from the ignition.  The orange engine light is bright on the dashboard, as is the car’s temperature level, which is marked at “H.”
I can feel the cold of the air outside through my thin black jeans. There is a ticking sound that comes from the engine in intervals. The road ahead moves up a gently rising hill and then peaks, making what lays ahead a complete mystery.

Cul-de-sac

She sits in her small black truck in an affluent suburban cul-de-sac. The road is somewhat narrow leading in, but at the end, where the road dead-ends in a row of shrubs, the asphalt opens wide, creating a circle where any car can turn around fluidly.
There are two spots of shade on either side of the street. Her car is parked beneath one, next to an old yellow fire hydrant and a five foot tall row of shrubs. In the other swatch of shade, an occupied mail delivery truck sits with the motor turned off, the mail-person is just barely visible below the reflection of autumn leaves on the windshield.
There are three large houses that face the cul-de-sac. They are many feet away from the street, shielded from the asphalt by long driveways and ivy and bushes. There are mature trees and shrubs that separate the houses from each other, with ample space between them for fencing and foliage.
Parallel to the cul-de-sac, just forty feet away from the houses and the nearly deserted street is a fairly busy road. Sitting on the cul-de-sac, she can hear a busy street not too far away.
She can hear the sounds of the school on the opposite side of the busy street. Children are playing, calling to each other on the large carefully tended field. Little boys scream with pleasure as a goal is made. There is a repetitive sound of green balls hitting the floor of a tennis court.
Cars pass regularly on the street behind the houses and cul-de-sac. Occasionally a truck with its powerful diesel engine winds its way through the neighborhood and passes the school.
Her car adds to the music, something is ticking mechanically, though the engine is turned off. In the trimmed bushes beside her car, hiding in the thick bed of fallen leaves, a small animal scavenges for food, crumpling leaves as it walks and scuffles the underbrush.
A gentle breeze passes through the two open windows of her truck. It is soft, sending a cool touch over her skin and rattling the long pieces of hair that hang on either side of her face. She sits in the car, her eyes closed, listening to the chorus of sounds that fill the cul-de-sac with vibration.

Strip Mall

The sun has just left the sky, leaving the faintest glow of yellow hovering close to the horizon. Twilight is all around. Feathering out from the yellow-lit hue is a pale blue which fades abruptly into deep cobalt and purple-black. Several seagulls cross the sky silhouetted against the pale blue night.

I am sitting under the thick metal awning of a short strip mall on the outskirts of a sprawling apartment complex. Squat, two-story condos and tall apartment buildings are interspersed like a twenty minute long checkers match, they stretch for blocks and blocks, creating a mini-city. To the left, several hundred feet behind the grocery store at the end of the strip mall, is an apartment building standing twenty stories tall. A few of the windows are lit from inside, though the majority of them are dark. In front of me, just beyond the parking lot, is a long two-story apartment building that vaguely references Greek architecture with its two white pillars on either side of the main front door.

There are twelve different businesses all sharing the same long florescent-lit awning. At one end is the mid-sized supermarket with a front-facing glass wall. Covering the glass wall are an assortment of neon beer signs that each vie for attention. They blare their colorful message into the night, looking for thirsty eyes and loose wallets. On the other end of the strip-mall is a lonely-singular ATM that stands unprotected against the night. A solitary bulb embedded in the awning shines down, illuminating the money machine.

Between the two anchor points are a dozen storefronts. I sit out front, at the only outdoor table drenched in the glow of an arabica bean-scented coffee shop. My white paper to-go cup of milk-drenched tea rests on the table to my left, the cup still too hot for my fingers to hold. Two men play chess at a small table directly behind me, we are separated only by a thick glass pane and a thousand other invisible walls. Next door, a brightly-lit laundromat hums with the sound of tumbling clothes and a screeching baby that takes short breaths between wails. Three young Asian guys are standing just outside the open doorway to the laundromat. They talk amongst themselves in gangsta accents, simultaneously laughing together and making fun of each other.

Closer to the market at the end is a burger place with a sporty, Hall of Fame theme. There is an ice cream parlor, a smoke shop that sends the constant perfume of nagchampa drifting out its open door, a pizza place, a kick boxing school and two other small storefronts under construction. The steady tap and boom of the construction work mingles with the insistent hum of dryers and swishing washers. Somewhere above, a jumbo jet cuts through the sky, its noisy engines rattling the metal table and the contents of my paper cup.

Beyond the storefronts and sidewalk is a small parking lot with a hundred spaces, though only a handful are occupied by silent cars. Just beyond the lot is a narrow street lined with glowing street lamps and one large silhouetted cypress stands tall and dark against the changing sky.

Auto Shop

The smell of oil and tires linger, though a breeze moves through a wide open roll-up door that faces a moderately busy street. Every so often the multiple swooshing sounds of moving cars outside enter the quiet chamber of the auto shop, interacting with the occasional bursts of mechanical drilling that come from the heart of the garage. There is the occasional clatter of metal hitting metal, or a drill, or the sporadic chorus of ringing phones.
The space is long and narrow and goes deep into the two-story building. The front of the shop is evident to the outside world simply by the open roll-up door and the sign above it that reads in handwritten red paint: “Mas Auto Shop.”
There is a continuous low hum coming from the back of the shop, from someplace far behind the roll-up door and office and waiting area by the front. The sound comes from something mechanical, some machine in a state of waiting, charging for use.
Fifteen feet from the roll-up door is a walled-in office with glass windows on two sides that open into the garage. Inside the space is illuminated by yellow overhead lights. There are two long wooden desks piled with paperwork. There are two computers on each desk, miscellaneous office equipment: pencils, staplers, ballpoint pens, notepads, a calculator. A girl, hidden behind the counter in front of the desks, is talking. She speaks with an Asian dialect, she talks very quickly.
On the outside of the office wall, just above the window, facing the opening of the roll-up door, is a big square blue sign with the Chevron emblem in the center, below the emblem in bold white letters is the word ‘Lubricants.’ Next to that large sign is a collage of other smaller signs. There are signs for the shop’s promotions and specials. “Lamp Station Prices” with hand-written in prices, ‘Smog Check’ signs with the type of inspection and the hand-printed prices beside them, and on the corner of the wall, a big STOP sign, below it is written: ‘Stop here please.’
On one side of the rollup door is a rack of new tires, a small wind chime hangs from a metal bar on the rack. On the other side of the open door is a small space for waiting. A row of decorative bookshelves three feet tall delineates the space between work and rest. The black bookcases are divided into a checkerboard of cube-like shelves, some with open backs and others with cardboard backs. On top of the bookcases are four equally spaced plants in white and blue ceramic pots. Towards one side, there are two variegated climbing ivy plants, and then two other small palms with alternating stripes of green and white.
Within the waiting area are a variety of seats. Against the wall of the shop that faces the street is a black exercise bike. A few feet from it is a gray and slightly stained rug with two loveseats and a wooden bench that face each other. The cream leather loveseat sofa faces the wood and wrought iron bench. Perpendicular to the cream leather loveseat is a worn light brown loveseat. It is plush and the fabric on the headrests is slightly darker than the rest of the fabric, indicating that many people have rested their heads against it.
In the center of the carpet, between all three loveseats, is a large round coffee table. There are piles of newspapers, a week’s worth of news. Almost all of them are in an Asian script, though there is one local newspaper in English, pictures of a neighborhood fire grace its cover. A pile of magazines with only their spines showing sit buried below the piled-up newspapers. An abandoned white paper coffee cup and an empty folded white paper bag which once housed a pastry sit on one end of the coffee table. Across from the coffee cup, on the other edge of the table, is a wide jade plant in a terra cotta pot. A terra-cotta looking plastic tray rests below the pot. A small stuffed Hello Kitty face hangs from a thin string from one of the jade plant’s thin branches.
Between the two plush love seats is a small end table. The wood is worn and the varnish is nearly stripped along the top, though the legs are still shiny. On its surface is a large jade, its leaves are smaller and lighter than the plant on the circular coffee table.
The phone rings and is quickly answered, then again, the space is made alive by the tinkling of the chimes.

Ruined City

I sit in the backseat of a car, the deep red plush fabric of the seats are dim in the night. A young woman is in the driver’s seat, her hands gripping tightly on the wheel. Her pale skin, her long light brown hair, they are colors and shapes that dance on the edges of my vision as I lean forward, looking into the night that casts everything in its dark cloak.
I am leaning forward, my body pushing on the firm restraint of a seatbelt, its promise of safety meaningless in the scene before me. Within the car, the pungent smell of adrenaline mixes with the noxious fumes of exhaust, sulfur and fear.
We are alone on this road. Alone in the stillness of this night. I stare through the spotted windshield to a scene of wreckage. My breathing is shallow, and though both car windows are closed, the cold night air finds the skin of my cheeks.
A freeway ramp climbs before us. A gentle incline rises and rises, then curves slightly to the left, headed towards the city that lies beyond the black bay. The two-lane ramp is pock-marked with the craters of dropped bombs, and the raised rings around the small mounds of asphalt continue to crumble. Around each crater are small chunks of tar, tiny pebbles, and fine black dust. The craters dot both lanes liberally, the remains of tiny bombs that fell here some time ago.
Beyond the ramp, rising from the dark city below that casts not one light, is a nearly destroyed building. The intact side still smooth and angular, a remnant of a no-nonsense style of architecture that focused on function and efficiency in a space that was densely populated. But half of the building is gone, a monstrous bite into the hard flesh of its structure. Spikes of rebar and electrical wire spill from the chunks of crumbling gray concrete. What’s left of it is at least twenty stories high, though it seems close to collapsing.
Despite its devastation, there are signs of life in the building, little yellow signals that speak silently into the night. Half a dozen windows in the intact section glow, sending out the message that there are still those that breathe in the forgotten mess.

Darkness All Around

Dark, dark night of dewy grass and forgotten lots. A car is parked alongside a misty road, a white four door Sedan with rounded edges. Three doors are open and the overhead light is on, illuminating the interior of tan upholstery and carpet. Moored in a little bay of black asphalt, it glows warmly like a candle in a dark room. Around it the mist roll and curl and obscure dark stretches of road beyond the small empty parking lot and vaster blankets of green grass. It eclipses the yellowed bodies of naked trees whose leaves have blown far away, leaving only a few little golden tokens spread about the bed of grass.
The sky is void of the twinkle of stars huddled behind the invisible cover of clouds. Without street lamps or the light of civilization, the sky above is unfathomable and inky. The headlights of the parked white car shine out a few feet from its nose, casting their beam over the grassy floor and sea of sparse trees being swallowed by the voracious fog.
A tall young man stands in the parking lot embracing a young woman. He is clad in a bright red cape donned over crisp blue jeans and a new polo shirt of a dark navy hue accented by a band of lightly colored stripes that encircle his chest. The red satin horns of a devil are pinned on his head. His face is clean shaven, his short cropped hair is dark, his eyes are gentle and deer-like. He is engaged in pressing the girl enthusiastically to his breast, his cape rippling in the breeze that moves the white fog around them in sheets of mobile moisture.
The woman holds a video camera in one hand and presses her blonde head receptively into his heart. Her clothes are shabby and oversized, faded wide-leg denim coupled with a baggy long sleeved T-shirt.
A milk chocolate skinned black girl with silky rings of curled hair falling around her Egyptian looking face stands apart from the couple, hovering near the car. Her arms are crossed in front of her body and she stands with her weight resting more heavily on one leg than the other, like a crane poised in the banks of the Nile. Her brows are expertly shaped, her lips are glossy. She wears big slim hoop earrings and a white shearling jacket with slim jeans that accent her diminutive physique.

House

There is a house that sits at the curved tip of a quiet cul de sac. The sun is out and the five street lamps have been turned off. There are no children, no cars, nothing but the gentle rustle of a breeze. The front yard and the length of the entire house is shielded from the street by a wall of dark green bushes that reach 25 feet high with a denseness of three feet from the sidewalk. The foliage stretches from the edge of the property to the opening of the driveway, the only path free of bushes and green that leads to the house. The faded black asphalt has been made bumpy and mountainous from the thick tree roots just below the hardened layer of man, a testament to the patience of nature that will conquer all with time. Both the right and left side of the driveway are surrounded by tall green bushes. There is a single car parked silently in the driveway, a faded green Chevrolet that has sat in the same spot for three decades. The car is long and wide and emits a constant drip of oil that is caught in the metal basin below its hood. Just past the car is a white garage door that no longer opens. It was once pure white, but the paint has fallen off in large strips and the edges of the wooden door reveal gray wood damaged by sun and rain and wind. To the right of the asphalt there is a slender break in the bushes which opens to a slender cement walkway that extends 15 feet and then makes an abrupt left for another five feet, ending at an open white wooden door, the center of which has a grid-like pattern of beveled orange glass.
Between the bushes and the cement walkway is a tended rectangular garden. Although the property itself is angular, a slender strip of plastic fencing has been placed in the shape of a large circle, about thirty feet in diameter. This shape is the heart of the garden, the mandala around which everything revolves, all other plants surround it like ladies in waiting. The perimeter of the circle is made silver by small bunches of fuzzy lamb’s ear. Interspersed among the silver are patches of vibrant blue lobelia. Small ceramic gnomes and cats and porcelain figurines of English ladies dot the landscape. In the center of the circle is a white ceramic fountain, a chubby, naked Roman boy, dancing amid fluttering ribbons in the midst of a non-existent wind. The yard is quiet, a soft breeze just barely moves the leaves of the tall bushes along the sidewalk. Spotted shade and sunlight speckle the yard in the late afternoon sun. The house faces the yard, a row of windows with gauzy curtains reveal nothing of the world inside. Below the windows, in the small space of earth between the house and the cement walkway, tall bushes of red and pink geraniums glow in the speckled sunlight.

Homestead

The modular unit is suspended on cinder blocks to keep it raised above the dusty earth. Jagged shards of glass remain in the shattered windows like vicious loose teeth. Pieces of shredded black plastic hang from the underside, fluttering spastically in the softly whispering wind like tattered flags in the murk beneath the mobile. The door frame stands unobstructed, the door having been removed from the hinges and lost long ago. Inside, the floor is littered with chipped plaster and dirt. Menacing black holes have been burned into the carpet and streaks of red and black graffiti shout from the barren walls. The doorway opens into an empty living area, one side of which is open to the world. Instead of a wall, some of the clear plastic that sealed it when it was being moved down highways in some far flung past is still intact. It is yellowed and brittle with an age exacerbated by rare but biting rains, ferocious wind and relentless sun . In some places, it is shredded and dangles like ribbons. Clear packing tape has been applied here and there to close some holes and connect severed fragments. The view through its filmy lens is of a dusty lot that slopes downhill and meets bare boulders and a pair of thirsty pepper trees.
Beyond the open living room, a hall connects three bedrooms and a bathroom. The doors are missing from two of the bedrooms and the bathroom. One room still has a door and it is closed. A soiled mattress rests on the floor of one of the back rooms. It almost fills the room. A woman is sleeping under a coarse and dirty blanket. Her brown hair is matted, her fingers and face are blackened with soot or grease. The other open room is empty. A few flannel shirts are scattered on the floor. The murmur of voices locked in discussion rises from behind the closed door. Behind the mobile, the bald hill peaks and looks over the wasteland. There is a gutted car with a roll cage set up on more cinder blocks. Rusting car parts are spread all over the ground. A burnt out oil drum stands in the center of a ring of broken down arm chairs, couch cushions, tires, egg crates, and busted lawn chairs.
Another lonely pepper tree waves its thirsty fern-like fingers in the hot breeze from its post at the crest of the hill. The steep and pebbly drop off below is littered with white boulders and debris. Ancient rusted tin cans, bits of plastic that might once have been potato chip bags, thread worn rags hide among the dry weeds and boulders marred with graffiti. The drop melts into many minor rolls of earth that reach into the distance. Nestled in their far away bosom, a dirt road lays like a long twitching tongue of earth.
A greasy man with a stripe of gray hair hanging from an otherwise bare skull stands on the edge chewing a tiny twig from the pepper tree. His face and hands are smudged with the black grease so that his pink skin only emerges as patches like land masses adrift in an oily sea. A pair of shaded goggles are strapped over his eyes and his faded purple tee shirt is cut off high above his navel. Jean shorts, once black, are almost gray and cut off just above his knees. He watches the road below, chewing the twig and cleaning his teeth with slow thoughtful relish. The hand that presses the twig to his yellow teeth is clad in a black bike glove, the sort that leaves the fingers exposed, covers the palm and is fastened with Velcro at the back of the hand. His boots are cracked and worn so that creases of brown leather are visible amid the splintering black finish like little veins. The socks sticking out of the top are discolored by sweat and grease. Nothing disturbs the distant road. Farther out, there are patches of green and distant purple mountains.

Shopping Center

The streets are populated with shiny cars in the bright rainbow colors of fruit flavored candy. They are red and bright yellow and dark blue. Some are black or silver or gold. All glisten in the sun like brand new toys. The streets are a velvety gray, smooth with clean crisp painted lines. They are new fairways not yet tainted with tire marks and oil slicks. Circling and winding from one tall stop light to the next, they snake their way around the clean shopping centers and chain restaurants. The whole place is clean and bright. The walls of the box stores are anonymous and painted in warm cream colors, the store names are written in brand appropriate fonts across the front of the building faces in blue or white or yellow. They are un-chipped, void of any stray marks. So new that weather hasn’t been able to take its toll and vandals are still rubbing their eyes in astonishment, licking their lips and rubbing their palms together in anticipation of the day when security diminishes, but those days are yet to come. For now security carts patrol the parking lots like mother hens looking over nests of eggs. The planter boxes are filled with neatly trimmed shrubbery. Little trees that look like toothpicks with gumdrops set upon their points stand as proud as tin soldiers in the cement boxes outside of the glass store fronts. Grass rolls out in a fine green carpet alongside the walkways that lead to the smoky colored glass doors of the box restaurants. Lanky irises yawn up out of little islands set in the parking lots accompanied by skinny little maples that dream of making shade some day. Meanwhile, the shiny cars nose up to them, resting in tidy rows reserved by clean white lines. The traffic lights hang over the intersections that join dining establishments to malls to movie theaters like gawky tall young ladies. Their three bright eyes blink green to yellow to red under their steel black bonnets, holding lines of eager cars at bay with their crimson blush. Pedestrians, mostly teens, flow through the clearly delineated crosswalks guided by the electronic chirp chirp and flashing blue symbol that barely resembles them with their styled hair and skinny jeans, hoop earrings and music T-shirts, skateboards and chunky hand bags tucked under their arms. They mill about in front of the cinema gazing up at the white marquee board with its bold black letters announcing titles, show times, and ratings. More people file in and out of the box stores and main mall entrances, chatting on cell phones or rattling keys, or both at once, carrying boxes and bags, pushing carts with whinny toddlers strapped into the front like the dragon masts of Viking ships. Satisfied diners pick at their teeth with toothpicks and jingle change in their slack pockets in front of the restaurants. They hurry back to their shiny metal hosts to rouse them from their restful slumber, like parents rousing babies in a nursery to claim them and take them home. Only these babies roar and speed along over the posted limit. They are directed along those clean new stretches of road by the gangly traffic lights that hope to imitate rainbows with their perfectly arched spines. These babies puff out little invisible clouds of exhaust, filling the causeway with their chemical breath. They bleat like lambs when they fear they will bump noses with one another, or if the one in line ahead of the others is being too timid or law abiding, they may all join in a chorus of bleated complaints. With no lanes for bicycles or scooters, these must make their way amid the metal monster babes at their own risk, like puppies hopping to avoid their tails getting crushed.

Stalker

Beneath a boundless blue sky, there is a small pond in the center of a large grassy field. The yellowed grass is the color and height of mature wheat on an open plane. The tops of the blades sway and ripple in the wind, moving in a thousand directions at once; their constant rustling creates a murmur that adds to the stillness of the land. There is a small tree by the pond, its trunk is thin and its branches are easily bendable in the wind, and although its still young, its canopy is broad enough to provide shade from the relentless sunlight. The pond is shallow and dark blue. At the bottom, the soft earth has turned to a silky soft mud that leaves trails of its black sediment across the feet that step on it. Small bits of algae dot the surface of the water and nearly translucent guppies skip along just below the surface. Small ripples from the wind scatter the waters towards the shoreline, a boundary which is lined with long thin reeds and tiny sprouts of green grass.
There are two sisters wading in the pond. One is tall and lean, her long blond hair blows like the tall grasses around her, her firm breasts are covered by a thin red tube top. Her sister is nearly identical, but just slightly smaller; shorter legs, smaller breasts, tinier waist. The girls are in the center of the pond, their long white legs bare except for their jeans shorts. The water line tickles the skin on their calves. They move their feet up and down like marching soldiers, squeezing the mud between their toes. They are silent, their attention engrossed in the dark water below. They stare at the water and at their buried feet.
There is a man in the distance, he is by the side of a two lane highway a short distance away from the grassy field. He sits upon the hood of his small, beat-up red car. He looks towards the girls in the field through squinted eyes. In his hand is a snapshot of the blond young woman. The highway is deserted, the sun sends heat waves cascading above the asphalt. The man is wearing long blue jeans and an old stained T-shirt. In the sun, the lines of his thirty year old face are just beginning to show. His eyes squint in the bright sunlight. He stares at the girls who are oblivious to his presence. The wind rattles through the air, like a muted siren among the grass.

Maneuvering Over The Wreckage

My body rests in the soft contours of a plush Oldsmobile seat. I am in the driver’s seat, in front of a clear windshield and a long cream colored hood, a hood so long I can barely see where it ends. In the rear is a long bench seat covered in maroon fabric that resembles velvet, but is not. Behind the back seat is a slightly tinted rear window and the long tail of the car that also curves beyond the horizon of my sight. The front seat is also a singular bench wide enough for three people, but in the car, there is only me and a 10 year old Korean boy who sits close to the passenger window, the right side of his body leaning into the car door. A fabric seat belt clings to him, stretching diagonally from the far end of the passenger door to the shiny buckle on his left side. The front seat is upholstered in the same faux velvet material, but its color is different than the back. Along the edges is an outline in maroon, but in the center, covering the middle of both the backrest and the seat, is a mixture of silver and brown threads that have been knitted together. Both my hands on the thin plastic wheel, slightly above center. We are in a wealthy suburban neighborhood on a very bright day. Although there are no clouds in the sky, the sky is not blue; it’s almost like the sunlight has taken over everything, turning every color into a yellow hue that’s so bright it borders on white. It is the brilliance of a candle flame, so bright it hurts to look at it. The light has colored each house into the shade of bleached sand. Each home in the neighborhood is large and spacious, they are mostly two story homes with wide steps that lead up to an impressive oak door. Each house is set apart from its neighbor by ample space and also slightly away from the street. The land between the street and houses is barren, there are no trees, no flowers, no cars or signs of life. The road that cuts through the neighborhood is wide, large enough for 6 lanes of traffic, but there are no other cars. Along with the black asphalt, all the traffic lines have disappeared beneath a thick layer of trash. Most of the debris is industrial, white plastic tubing, sharp pieces of chrome and aluminum in a thousand different sizes. Bricks add their color to the heavy chunks of cement and balls of wire. There are tires torn to shreds and pieces of paper that float slightly above the litter whenever a breeze picks up. Scattered every couple of feet are huge upright refrigerators made of tarnished metal, the kind used in commercial kitchens and bakeries. They are scattered along the road like orange cones without intent, without any uniformity or clear indication of purpose. As I drive, I swerve through them, sometimes needing to veer to the right to avoid hitting one, then needing to move back quickly to the left to avoid hitting another one that stands in our path. My foot is barely touching the gas pedal and the car crawls over the junk like a tortoise. My eyes are completely fixed on the road and I make every effort to avoid the corners of sharp objects, but I feel anxious, I’m afraid the tires will pop at any moment, I’m afraid we’ll hit a refrigerator. There are dings and dents in their sides, scars from other cars. Some of them have doors that hang by a single bolt. The little boy beside me takes no notice of the wreckage, he stares out the window in a posture of slight boredom and familiarity. This bumpy ride is nothing new to him, he has traveled the obstacle course of his neighborhood many times, staring through the window without any interest in the sights beyond.

Red Light

The bright light of early afternoon has blanketed the one-way city street. There are an assortment of semi- tall buildings and skyscrapers, some are sleek and new, their mirrored windows reflecting the perfect blue sky. Other are smaller, only ten stories high, remnants from an early period of architecture and city planning, the building faces are decorated with colorful tile work, geometric brick patterns, and wrought iron gates. The street is composed of three lanes, and I sit idling in the center lane, waiting at a red light. My hands are resting on the top of my steering wheel, gripping it out of habit. Within the small cab of my black truck, I feel the heat of the day amplified by the windshield. I am wearing a low cut T-shirt, and the exposed skin on my chest is warm and red from the sunlight. To my right is a man in a silver car, his hairy arm hangs out the window, his pudgy hand holds a burning cigarette. The smell surrounding me is a mix of smoke, car exhaust, and asphalt.
To my left is a liquor store, a black man in a black beanie emerges from the store with a poorly disguised vodka bottle in a paper sack. A short white man wearing a gray sweatshirt stands outside the entrance, smoking a cigarette. He looks up and down the street often, squinting his eyes with each inhalation. On the other side of the street is a small office supply store and an abandoned-feeling real estate office. Men in business suits move quickly on the sidewalks, a woman in a knee length brown skirt pushes a baby carriage toward the city center, and delivery men come and go with carts full of perishables.
My car window is open, and the sounds of accelerating cars and muffled ranchero music enters the space. There is a man pressed against my car. He is leaning in my window, his hands holding onto the steering wheel. As our eyes lock, he alternates between a human form, with distinguishable features and then, into a shadowy body with no face. He wears all dark clothes, black pants and a black hooded sweatshirt, and atop his bald head is a black hat. I smell his clothes, dirty and reeking of staleness. His face alternates from one of blackness without any shape to one of olive skin and a vague, stubbly beard. When he has eyes, they are dark brown and piercing, his eyebrows are thick with many long stray hairs turning away from any clear formation. He holds the wheel firmly with no intention of letting go.

In a Parked Car

The street is drenched in sunlight. The slight breeze that rolls up the hill is blocked by the surrounding buildings, leaving this particular street to a heavy stillness, a quiet pocket of dusty air covered by a blanket of dense heat. The sidewalk is covered in cracks and forgotten symbols, slight attempts at immortality from sixteen-year-olds in love and little kids in ripped jeans. A driving sign cautions drivers not to turn left, its metal is bent and warped, faded by the sun and brought down from the ideal to the particular by a thousand little defects that now cover its once pristine surface. The grass at the edge of the sidewalk is overgrown, tall weeds extend outwards to the street, finding hope in the noise of infrequent cars and the grainy, dark blue asphalt. A forgotten little toy car has found a resting place in the middle of the tall leaves, alongside a discarded can of beer and a piece of oil stained cloth. The smell of boiling stew seeps out from a window, along with a woman calling a name that can only belong to a little boy. Other voices fade in and out, as if finding secret pathways through the little currents of air that make their way across the heavy blanket of heat.
The building is three stories tall. There’s a stairway leading upstairs at the corner. It is made of stone planks, connected into a sequence by a dark metal skeleton. Facing the street are four sets of windows, each large and dirty. Some clothes can be seen hanging from an upper one, the reflection of a TV can be seen on one of the lower ones. The walls are covered in a discolored maroon and the edges of the windows are bright yellow. The lowest level of the building is an open garage with enough room for four different vehicles. Only one slot is filled with a parked car, two are completely empty and in the fourth there is an old discarded light brown couch, covered in broken plastic wrap. It is covered in marks and holes, some from exposure to the elements, some from mischievous little hands. The couch is propped up on rotting wooden planks. There is a tiny table next to it and a forgotten empty bottle of wine propped up against the wall.
The single parked car is an antique, a large curvaceous monster covered in fins and bright colors. The metal decors are mostly in their original place but the colors show gaps of white and naked metal. The windows are darkened by the angle of the sun and the shadow of the garage roof. Only one window is rolled down and slight noises can be heard coming from inside. The car shifts slightly every once in a while, revealing movement in its darkened interior.
Two women sit inside, looking at each other and talking continuously. One sits in the driver seat and the other one in the passenger seat. They have their arms over the tall front seats and they are so fascinated with the sound of each others’ voices that their surroundings seem to vanish around them. They are both a similar age, around 40 years old, they both show the signs of married life, motherhood and many years of daily struggle. They are both Filipino and both wear a similar kind of faded dress covered by a dirty apron. Their arms are thick and their skin is brown. Every so often, they lean forward to catch a whispered phrase or to deliver a specially conspiratorial secret.
The inside of the car is drenched in their sweat and flowery perfume. They open and close their eyes in a silent sign of trust and secret confidence. The latest news of the woman next door, the last we heard of the nephew, that postcard from the one who left a year ago, the stories of the single man that lives a few doors down… it all slides back and forth. Listening and talking. Talking and listening. A rhythm of whispers and staccato statements of rumored fact and factual rumor, a music of broken phrases and never-ending stories that only pauses when someone walks too close. Then one of them turns, looks at the sidewalk, waits for the intruder to walk away and turns back to her companion. The concerto of intense quiet stories then continues and the electrical currents flow through the sweat and the perfume and the heat… once again.

Little Dorothy

I still want to tell him about my dream, but we leave the stone courtyard with the bench and its withered occupant: the eavesdropping old man.

My companion leads the way to the street. His black hair is blowing in the brisk breeze. I insist that I have more to tell him but he says he doesn’t want to hear anymore. The sky is overcast, the atmosphere cool and moist suggesting that we are near the sea. There are people out on the street busy with their own affairs. The have an idyllic old world look to them. It seems possible that they are Dutch. They wear funny shoes, white aprons and hats. My companion is walking quickly and it is difficult for me to catch up. He isn’t waiting for me and takes no notice when I fall behind. Frustrated I stop. He hurries along oblivious to my absence. I watch him for a moment, my own straw colored hair lashing my cheeks in the wind. Resigned I let go of my open umbrella and it tumbles down the street, blown in the same direction as my companion. I turn my back on them and begin to walk in the opposite direction.

Suddenly I hear tires screeching in the road behind me. I turn and see a little girl in a blue dress and white apron crumpled in the street. She lies unmoving at the nose of a big black automobile, a classic car with a shiny chrome bumper. A woman cries out,"It’s Dorothy! She’s dead!"The girl, blonde braids spilled about her crown, is indeed dead, but the woman must be mistaken.
I am Dorothy.