fishspeaker

Quiet. The sun beats down on the bleachers. They are hot. People carry umbrellas, wear baseball hats, shimmer with shiny oil over their skin: anything to keep the sun off. Tiny birds flit around the tennis courts. They launch themselves from their corner mud and grass nests, inched between cement arches that shadow the walkway from the gym to the exercise center. They tumble about the air, like children with wings, fluttering over the swimming pool, across the dry grasses which sweep across small hillocks; they overlook the sparkling bay, a hint of the sun caught in their eyes as they flash through evergreens. A battle is taking place on the court below. A slash, and then a flurry of green. The people on the bleachers erupt like an explosion of energy. He (the winner) holds ... read more

The floor is slick with what seems like sweat. The theater is filled - men and women, bright eyes, hungry mouths, gunslinger fingers, a carpet of speech, a hundred different speakers playing at once. Some lean back in chairs, chatting amiably, others are silent. There are old ladies with purses and grandma hair, young ladies with cell phones and dark eyeliner. Some young men stand by the door, looking out into the theater hallway, while talking amongst themselves. The older men are seated comfortably in their chairs, staring at the flashing screen. An insurance ad. A beautiful woman, her hair like fresh gold, with perfect pearl teeth, giving a thumbs up. A black screen with a purple movie reel and a question in bright yellow: “What was the special racing coupe used in the movie The ... read more

The sandwich shop sits on the corner of Solano and San Pablo. Inside, the walls are covered in paintings of old New York subway tubes; some of the pictures are of people waiting for the subway, some standing in the subway, and ancient blueprints and subway maps. An older man sits by himself, his mouth gaping and crashing closed as he chomps at his sandwich. Pieces of lettuce and pickle dribble out of the bread. The door opens to a biker who is wearing a stylish, yet thick, winter sweater. Cars zoom by outside. An old lady hobbles by using a silver, plastic cane. A young lady crosses the street, her mangy, white pup leading her through the all-too nice traffic, which slams on brakes and waves kindly to the nice lady and her dog, while ... read more

The sky spans. There is grass on the hills. The earth prods at the sky, reaching for the clouds. Trees line the hilltops in boulevards. The scent of fresh moss hangs from branches, dripping in wet fragrance. A trail carves through the hill, wrapping around the golden mound like a belt. Solitary figures walk over the trail, mere shadows against the encompassing heavens. There are figures seated on the white grass, legs propped up, eyes glued to the daylight stars. Some wear backpacks, eat sandwiches, drink bottles of brewed water. This land has lived for a thousand years, barren from the world. The trees commune with the wind, yet the chorus of birds fades, long echoes draped between calls, the shadow of a wing a rare thing. The woods are quiet, silent, devoid of the largesse ... read more

Cloistered halls. Old ghosts. Silence. The library is to the left. Within the glass doors, a young man stands behind a desk. He is wearing a pair of thin-framed glasses, and also a long, brown braid of hair, that swings over his shoulders and as he turns, his attention is drawn downward. A lone bicycle appears from behind one of the cloister openings, and then disappears just as quickly. The sun is fading, drawing to a close, and a patch of heavy, gray clouds sit on the roof of the world. Quietude pervades all. The lives behind the veil are hidden from sight. The rigours of the world take forms, in the girl sitting on a block of cement, reading a book, her legs crossed as she leans back, to the man pumping his legs up ... read more

The streets are quiet, hushed. Like a patter of rain, the sounds of rolling wheels and a light breeze through the trees. The clack-clack of keyboards, the random sick cough, and the squeal of an old bus coming to a stop, the doors rattling open, and the sound of a paint chip falling to the ground. The memories pass - across the mind, a wave of nausia at first, and then a song. In the memories, the sky is clear like glass, the sun and clouds above the thin sheet separating reality from fiction - and an old man with a cane totters beside a community park. He is wearing a blue hat, and he turns up from the ground and stares hard into my face. He is a wrinkled man, with cheeks burned by the ... read more