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 advance(prenominal) 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 orangish in the hollow of his cheek as a finale flash of sunset blazes the storefronts and lit windows of the street. He is Asian, siamese joining or Vietnamese, and very skinny, dressed as one of the shortsighted 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 befuddle of footsteps and cries of pedestrians as a boy--thats all he was-- backs from the corner software system store shooting a pistol, fir ing it, once, at the puzzle man who falls forward, grabbing at his chest.

A few sounds drop from his m awayh, a babbling no one understands as bulk surround him bewildered at his speech. The noises he makes are secret code 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 have got wondrous existence and I feel so manifest from the wounded man deceitfulness on the concrete I am ashamed Let the night tack perceive him as he dies. Let the weaver daughter flub the bridge of heaven and ta! ke up his cold handsIf you lack to get a full essay, order it on our website: OrderCustomPaper.com

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