A Character Entry

An aging man, long ponytail with a receding hair line, sits at a table with a craft beer and a younger couple. He isn’t old enough to be their father, but rather a desperate friend. He wears shorts in January, but his heavy jacket doesn’t match.

Perhaps he enjoys younger people; maybe younger lovers; maybe a little too close from ending up on a certain shunned list. Or maybe he can’t let go of the youth that let him down.


A Character Entry

A punk girl, perhaps wishing she were Goth, strutted in a golden pullover, short velvet skirt, and high black boots with crossing laces crawling above her shin. Her legs were pale and soft, but marked with scattered colors of promiscuous rebellion. She teased with eye liner that curled upward, let her pitch black hair flow, and had an obsession with cats and chains.

She was a tired stranger.

A Character Entry

He was a short Italian punk, but hopefully the latter label has been dropped. He had beautiful blue eyes, piercing and hypnotizing, and dark thick eyebrows and a goatee to match. Each feature looked to be manicured by the Devil.

As maturity is supposed to come with age, so are physical struggles, and if he wasn’t careful, his appearance could soon become softer. However, other men wouldn’t mind his downfall. He did have one vulnerable quirk, though, that could either be seen as confidence or disrespect: he had the strange habit of bringing his own meal to large gatherings.

A boy of specific tastes, and a college dropout. His family owns a landscaping business that could very well be a front that he and is petite blonde bombshell shall soon inherit. Some have all the luck; it makes one wonder if balance exists.

A Character Entry

I only caught a glimpse of this woman; she moved with haste, but shouldn’t have been allowed to with the amount of confident grace in her stride. She was difficult to miss; large and tall enough for a professional athlete to court and handle, and she flaunted the fact.

Her long braided brown hair bounced off the middle of her back as she sported a blueish green dress meant for a 19th century southern belle–or two. She strutted away and I wondered if brothels were once again popular.

A Character Entry

This fellow was an interesting man; he fidgeted in his small space, hogging the only clear view of the scenic land rising. He was a smoker–his staleness was nauseating–and a drinker, taking advantage of a nice gesture to continue a needed conversation for one, and an unwelcome one for the other.

He was tall, lanky, and dressed too young and ghetto for so many wrinkles and such little hair. I later discovered his thick accent was Cuban as he vividly spilled his escape from the grasps of Castro nearly three decades before. With that in mind, he was excited at the opportunity to return with hopes of progression in tow, and only dreamed of warm weather until he fled back. Yet, he remained in the Northeast, twitching from the stress and explained with bitterness that it was due to his children’s love for snow.

I feel he was constantly searching for another escape, and then again, and again.

A Character Entry

He had black curly hair, thick hipster frames to match with thin lenses, and a nervous twitch as if a bass drum needed to be boomed. He had an Asian lover; perhaps he aspired to be like Lennon. His fashion was khaki-based, surely for comfort and not image.

He wrote like me, deep in thought most of the time with only a break to sip or nap. His journal contained drawings of shapes that accompanied his words. The man was a puzzle–or at least he pretended to be.

A Character Entry

A skeleton up top, tree trunks and swollen feet below. Yellow eyes, scabbed skin, and a choke in a voice willing to make drastic changes as she fights off tragedy. Past mistakes and a miniature reason to live keeps her strong, but there’s no one to blame other than herself and no one else to fix it. The vice became a near-death addiction. She told me she would go days without a swallow of food, and claimed alcohol was absent at times. It’s hard to believe, but hard not to want to.

The closest thing to a sister who wasn’t of blood lies weak in a hospital bed as we joke about the catheter. Spirits are high, she can still smile at the very least. It helps me picture the jubilant times when she had a bounce in her step, a warm and fun heart and a passion for life.

She died.