And So It Goes

My sketchbook balanced securely under my arm, I made my way outside. During the night, San Francisco succumbed to a somnambulating city, swaying and alive while maintaining a still sinisterness. I basked in this eeriness. Subconscious emotions and thoughts tended to emerge when faced in the atmosphere, which became people and backgrounds on paper.

The playground in Golden Gate Park was my destination. When I was little, Sean had taken me there to explore wooden castles and pirate ships. But soon after, the wood was declared unsafe-perhaps children were complaining of splinters- and flamboyant plastic replaced the texture. When the wood disappeared, so did the imagination. Queens and gold-seekers were hardly tangible on the new structures. It was then that I decided to be logical.

Even though I had an aversion to the playground, my best creations occurred while I was sitting barefoot in the sand. So I returned often, because the strokes of my pencil released my unspoken words. I enjoyed the control I had while drawing. I could devise an unflawed family and just as easily add malignant eyes staring maniacally in the background.

I settled down underneath one of many slides, casting me into the sable shadows. I spread my fingers through the cool grains of sand and tipped my head up. The air was harsh, as San Francisco was so familiarly acquainted with. I tugged my sleeves a little lower over my wrists and began my art.

My pencil moved hesitantly then more vehemently as a child appeared on the page. I took great pleasure in drawing children. Their gaze was naïve and untamed by the sharp slap that is life. Swollen bellies and sticky fingers defined health and adventure. The particular child I was drawing was unlike my usual. His angular face was stoic and guarded by dark eyes. Instead of foolish dimples and candy-stained teeth, he was tight-lipped as if he didn’t trust himself to keep a secret that had been surreptitiously whispered to him.

A steady breeze gliding through the trees and the occasional muffled shouts of a drunken man were my only musical accompaniment. I was emphasizing the boy's neckline when footsteps, unnervingly near, joined my symphony and the back of my neck prickled with anxiety.