Light

In the kitchen, my mind clears in the light. There is a single naked bulb above my head, strings of sticky fly-traps coiling down from its screws, but its light is a weak and ineffective thing. No, there is light pouring in like a river from windows placed perpendicularly at this end of the house. They are portals. When the Sun rises as it does now, its rays rain refracted from one but crowns boldly at the other.

It is an assault of heat and light that makes my eyes scream and my brain to exhale like an amorphous creature slumbering in a dark, liquid, cave. But my skin exalts at the ecstasy of the Sun’s heat, and warmth spreads all throughout my body, clearing the cobwebs of my mind.

I can think straight. I can see the way sunlight plays on the walls; it’s strains and strands filtering through the window bars; the patterns on the fridge; and the silver plate piled with cereal.

For a moment, I am entranced with how the milk shines back in its glow.

I am filled with sunlight and milk and cereal and I do not want to move. But then, the moment is broken by a voice, and I put my plate away.

-- Ikè Nwankpa

Crunchy Fried Chicken

The weather was far too somber for the beach, let alone a lonely beach day but it was my first day off from work in eleven days. The thought of going to the beach with some cheap Cabernet in a thermos and having some fried chicken from the spot right below the Brighton Beach stop on the Q train was all I thought of after day six of work. I was living off 140^th and Amsterdam at the time in a real bad set up but it was all I could afford and equaled freedom, to do things like go to the beach on nonsensical days. The trip to Brighton beach took ninety minutes, first the 1 train then the Q. It had become clear from the Kings Highway stop that the clouds on this particular Tuesday were miserable and unwilling to give the sun a chance. I descended the above ground station headed first to the fried chicken spot. The chicken spot was busy with an air of regulars, not very happy ones at that. It couldn’t have anything to do with the chicken I thought, last summer I had some and it was memorably delicious. I made up my own combo of wings, thighs and fries at the price of $4.50. I couldn’t wait to see the ocean for the first time in a year. I had been sipping on my cabernet on the train ride and had started to feel real good. I wondered whether I had wine teeth and if I did, I wondered if the cute South American boy at the chicken spot had noticed.

Surprisingly at the time, there was a good amount of people on the beach, again that air of regulars but this time happy ones. Fat old Russian men with their fat old Russian wives in flower print one piece suits, they adorned the beach like Christmas ornaments on a tree. I sat close to a sleepy wrinkly orange man whose radio blasted some old French ballads, they were lovely. I wanted to pretend I was not in Brooklyn, escape the city, but there was no way I could pretend this was not Brighton beach. I dug my feet into the moist sand, it was cold but comforting. I opened my box of fried chicken as the wind began to blow sand onto my meal like an extra seasoning. I ate my crunchy chicken to the bone and it was just as I remembered.

The Lie

David Munoz

English 221

The Lie

Third Wednesday of the month, which means another homeowner’s association meeting that I have to go to since my father would be working late tonight. I despise going to these meetings and talking about budgets and reporting about the obvious cracks that had formed in the center of the street. Todays’ meeting was short though. The cracks had finally been fixed by the city after months of complaining. Thanks to the daydreams and text messages I sent to my friends this was by far the most bearable meeting yet. Before I knew it, only the closing statements were left. With the cracks in the street fixed even that seemed to fly by, until Rudulpho, the owner of the home across from mine stood up. He held up a photo of a security camera covered in neon green paint.

To everyone else it looked like the work of some brazen young vandal. I saw it differently however. I saw the results of testing, which is the only logical thing to do when you spend your hard earned money on something that sounds like its too good to be true. A paint ball gun barrel that gives the paint ball a spin that actually counter acts gravity? To be honest it sounds like something out of a science fiction novel. Shoots accurately up to 120 feet the ad had said. That kind of distance was nearly unheard of for a paintball gun. It was only reasonable to test their claims.

The camera itself was the only thing that was coincidence. It just so happened to be at 117 feet from the window to my room. Luckily for me I had a tank of carbon dioxide left over from a paintball game last spring. My sense of curiosity had gotten the better part of me, and I found myself crouched behind the curtains to the window overlooking the street, my trusty Tippman A5 firmly in my slightly trembling hands. Slowly I pushed the barrel out the window and peered down a scope that I had attached. The cross hairs danced over the camera.“It caught me trying to sneak into my own house so I shouldn’t feel that bad about this.” I thought to myself. I took a deep breath in, held it and then let it go in a slow, controlled sigh. The cross hairs stopped their dance and hovered over the camera. I pulled the trigger.

I awoke from my daydream with a start. It is Wednesday night, not Wednesday morning, before the world had woken up. “You guys see the irony in the fact that we have a camera and still need to play this game of detective, right?” I said. It was the kind of remark I would have made if some one else had made the shot. But it was my shot, mines to embellish and retell later. My shot that they would never know I took.