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The sun had set over an hour ago, forcing Mani to finish the piece by his battery powered, super-sized flashlight. It was a Pyrrhic effort, because by the evening time few passersby would be heading through the small park, meaning that the completed chalk drawing would earn him no additional cash. Ordinarily, he would have abandoned the project, leaving it for the headsmen of the Philadelphia Streets Department. He would have grabbed his bedroll and wandered off to find a suitable place to rest his head for the night. This time was different though.
This time he was drawing her.
He'd seen her since he was a boy. Imagining her in his head usually, but every so often he'd catch glimpses of her. He would see her in the faces of the people on the street when out to dinner, or as one of the girls in the art class across the hall during night school. Once, when he was despairing in Saint Peter's and Paul after the sudden death of his father, he had looked up and seen her in the beatific face of the virgin Mary. Describing her was impossible. Her hair, her eyes, the color of her skin varied, but the soul was the same. It was an edge in her penetrating stare, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. She was a series of contradictions: ancient, yet youthful; playful, yet deadly serious. She was as experienced as a Babylonian step-dweller, but innocence and wonder still followed her. A woman out of time and place.
The woman in the chalk, who he brought to life again and again and again. Tonight she wore a cloak of twilight, wrapping the sky around her head like a cowl against the wind. She was looking down at a sundial, cracked and covered in ivy. Mani was finishing the shading on her face, touching up spots here and there. To leave her unfinished was a personal sin, some omen of ill-fortune that he dare never let happen.
With the last of his brighter flesh tone stick worn down to the size of a number two graphite pencil eraser, he finished, blowing softly on the drawing to clear off errant chalk dust. Pushing himself up onto his knees, he leaned backward to stretch his aching shoulders and back.
Mani was still a young man, but not quite as young as he might have wished. Doors had closed in his life, and continued to close with every passing night. The styling that he put into his street drawings spoke to the growing pit of despair weighing down on him. Rarely did he draw a happy scene. Even when he drew her, the smile she gave her was a knowing, mocking one, as if even she were judging him.
He stood up and brushed away his slightly ripped, olive green cargo pants, held together by a leather belt that had seen better days, cinched to its tightest hole and still a little too loose. A faded blue t-shirt hid behind a red hoodie with torn hems at the sleeves and various old stains running across the front, over a tan elephant iconography. He wore a hemp band around his neck - a keepsake from an old flame - and sported flat, low heel all purpose trainers that were worn at the heel and toe.
He chucked the small nub of chalk back into his art kit and closed the clasps. The kit went into his orange and black backpack, next to his compact digital camera and some spare trail mix. After that, the dark-haired artist inspected his donation tin. A day's work and he'd got a few spare dollars to show for it. Adding up the small bills, he figured he had made roughly 150 dollars.
Essentials ran through his mind. He needed something basic but filling for dinner, maybe rice would do. Then he'd need to pick up some shaving cream from the late night mart, to take care of the three day growth he was sporting. It was starting to itch, but personal grooming had taken a back seat with the recent eviction from his apartment. He still had a gym membership through the month, so he'd go there in the morning and wash the chalk off of his hands.
His blue eyes winced shut as he put a knuckled fist to his forehead, giving into another silent, introverted shout of self-loathing.
"How has it come to this?" he asked himself under his breath as he turned around to pick up his bedroll.
This time he was drawing her.
He'd seen her since he was a boy. Imagining her in his head usually, but every so often he'd catch glimpses of her. He would see her in the faces of the people on the street when out to dinner, or as one of the girls in the art class across the hall during night school. Once, when he was despairing in Saint Peter's and Paul after the sudden death of his father, he had looked up and seen her in the beatific face of the virgin Mary. Describing her was impossible. Her hair, her eyes, the color of her skin varied, but the soul was the same. It was an edge in her penetrating stare, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. She was a series of contradictions: ancient, yet youthful; playful, yet deadly serious. She was as experienced as a Babylonian step-dweller, but innocence and wonder still followed her. A woman out of time and place.
The woman in the chalk, who he brought to life again and again and again. Tonight she wore a cloak of twilight, wrapping the sky around her head like a cowl against the wind. She was looking down at a sundial, cracked and covered in ivy. Mani was finishing the shading on her face, touching up spots here and there. To leave her unfinished was a personal sin, some omen of ill-fortune that he dare never let happen.
With the last of his brighter flesh tone stick worn down to the size of a number two graphite pencil eraser, he finished, blowing softly on the drawing to clear off errant chalk dust. Pushing himself up onto his knees, he leaned backward to stretch his aching shoulders and back.
Mani was still a young man, but not quite as young as he might have wished. Doors had closed in his life, and continued to close with every passing night. The styling that he put into his street drawings spoke to the growing pit of despair weighing down on him. Rarely did he draw a happy scene. Even when he drew her, the smile she gave her was a knowing, mocking one, as if even she were judging him.
He stood up and brushed away his slightly ripped, olive green cargo pants, held together by a leather belt that had seen better days, cinched to its tightest hole and still a little too loose. A faded blue t-shirt hid behind a red hoodie with torn hems at the sleeves and various old stains running across the front, over a tan elephant iconography. He wore a hemp band around his neck - a keepsake from an old flame - and sported flat, low heel all purpose trainers that were worn at the heel and toe.
He chucked the small nub of chalk back into his art kit and closed the clasps. The kit went into his orange and black backpack, next to his compact digital camera and some spare trail mix. After that, the dark-haired artist inspected his donation tin. A day's work and he'd got a few spare dollars to show for it. Adding up the small bills, he figured he had made roughly 150 dollars.
Essentials ran through his mind. He needed something basic but filling for dinner, maybe rice would do. Then he'd need to pick up some shaving cream from the late night mart, to take care of the three day growth he was sporting. It was starting to itch, but personal grooming had taken a back seat with the recent eviction from his apartment. He still had a gym membership through the month, so he'd go there in the morning and wash the chalk off of his hands.
His blue eyes winced shut as he put a knuckled fist to his forehead, giving into another silent, introverted shout of self-loathing.
"How has it come to this?" he asked himself under his breath as he turned around to pick up his bedroll.