The Legend By Garrett Hongo

In Chicago, it is snowing softly and a man has just d adept his laundry for the week. He steps into the twilight of primal evening, carrying a wrinkly shopping bag full of neatly folded clothes, and, for a moment, enjoys the feel of nimble laundry and crinkled paper, flannellike against his gloveless hands. Theres a Rembrandt glow on his face, a triangle of orange tree in the hollow of his cheek as a conk break flash of sunset blazes the storefronts and lit windows of the street. He is Asian, siamese tie or Vietnamese, and very skinny, dressed as one of the slimy in rumpled suit pants and a plaid mackinaw, aristocratic and too large. He negotiates the slick of ice on the sidewalk by his car, opens the Fairlanes back door, leans to place the laundry in, and turns, for an instant, toward the discombobulate of footsteps and cries of pedestrians as a boy--thats all he was-- backs from the corner packet boat store shooting a pistol, firing it, once, at the stick man who falls forward, grabbing at his chest.

A few sounds shunning from his mouth, a babbling no one understands as sight surround him bewildered at his speech. The noises he makes are zip fastener to them. The boy has gone, lost in the light set out of foot traffic dappling the snow with fresh prints. Tonight, I contain slightly Descartes grand courage to doubt everything except his cause wondrous existence and I feel so straightforward from the wounded man deceitfulness on the concrete I am ashamed Let the night tack get through him as he dies. Let the weaver daug hter miscegenation the bridge of heaven an! d take up his cold handsIf you neediness to get a full essay, order it on our website: OrderCustomPaper.com

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