The Prout Research Institute of Venezuela

4th Prize: "The Dawn of a New Day"
by Shawn Doyle (USA)

5:10. p.m. As I shifted my gaze from the steaming asphalt and snarled traffic stalled ahead, I saw that the green digital clock carelessly taped to the dashboard had clicked off only one minute. If I looked at life in partitions of minutes, I started to drown in the overwhelming notion that minutes upon minutes added up to only weeks, with millions more to follow. Yet, if I looked at it in the whole of life, then it was a fleeting enemy. Trickling away like sand in the palm, it withered into emptiness.

My fellow languid travelers offered little solace. We each crawled mindlessly to and from the city each day like ants, long ago absolved of free will. I stopped quick, shifted to neutral and waited for the traffic god to move the cog one link forward so I could repeat this rite once again.

5:11 p.m. From the stick shift back to the clock. Another minute. I then shifted my sight up to the rearview mirror. I saw myself. This wasn’t me. It couldn’t be. A red tide welled and coursed, fuelled on by the notorious fumes and heat of the eight lane highway. I thought back to the collective oath that I had forged with friends during late summer night bonfires on the bay. “To tackle the mountains and tame the clouds. We were the skywalkers who would look death and adversity in the eyes without falter.”

The eyes peering back at me today foretold a different tale. Hubris and zest now showed pallid and anemic. It was like being in a circus with no big tent, no fried dough, just the funny mirror room. Wobbly cheeks and a pencil neck. I guess it wouldn’t have been so bad if a neon exit sign hung in the near distance. Some reassurance that I could walk out with a smile and say, “That was funny, huh?” But there was no soft track lighting leading me calmly to the light of day. And it wasn’t just me that reflected such plight. My friends, my family, my sense of community and communion seemed to morph and disfigure in an unpleasant way.

Dreams of innocence were abruptly cut dry by the acrimonious honk of the car behind me. Prodding me on. I was not a child in life, but thirty seven, flat broke and slowly flat-lining. I had watched my suburban counterparts test time in their own way. Susan, two courts below in the old colonial, had just recently bought a shiny red Beetle with some 1970’s style suede pants to match. Dan, classic Dan, got himself a twenty-something complete with long blond hair and a youthful bounce. The rest mainly lay encased in their dark lair surfing the net looking for something else-some vicarious persona to fulfill an empty dream. As if cyberspace offered some golden ticket to cheat time and space. A backdoor or worm hole. I could feel its lure. But I knew deep inside it was a false pill. Fairy tales, whether in print or digital code, always turned sour in the face of reality. Like the sun surrendering its imperial perch to an unbending horizon, selfish dreams fell victim at the final hour. The horizon was subtle and seemingly innocent, but nothing escaped its crushing grasp.

It was then that my life would change forever. It was not from a command of the heavens, but from a sudden impulse. Stuck in this traffic, I decided I would not be a leaf in the current. I was going to take life in my hand. So I mustered what little free will remained and got off the freeway two exits early. Mind you this was spontaneous for me. I had sat in that traffic day in and day out for twelve years and never done anything so seemingly stupid and pointless, yet bold in its own way for me. I found myself heading towards the Mission. Usually, I didn’t venture into such waters. I liked Latino people, their food, and bright colors, but I felt uneasy about things with which I didn’t really know and had little contact. Parking in where I hoped my car would be safe, I walked on with no destination in mind.

So, I headed south into the sun. It was a relief to be out of the car and congestion of the freeway. I had never really appreciated the Mission before other than hearing it eulogized for little family restaurants that sold heaping burritos dishes and Mexican priced Coronas. I past a small bakery and searched my memory for the word in Spanish. Lost in this thought, I almost passed over a slight figure sitting under the sign. It was the smile directed towards me that caught my attention. He had on thick dark glasses that hinted to him being blind, yet he must have picked up the sound of my passing feet, I presumed.

I hesitantly offered an, “Holá, como está?” not having moved my tongue in English’s Romantic cousin for several years. He cordially returned my greeting in Spanish and then added to my surprise, “And for where are you headed?” It was not so much that he spoke English that took me aback, but that he spoke with such a calm authority and formal register? I didn’t really know how to respond. I didn’t want to sound stupid and say I’m just wandering, so I opted for the ambiguous, “I’m just looking around.” He gave a faint nod and said, “Oh, I see.” “Well can I interest you in something?”

It was then I took closer note of his merchandise. He had a harness over his shoulder attached to a tray filled with bubble gum, lollypops, an old camouflage watch, mints, playing cards, small books, locks and some other seemingly random stuff. I noticed in addition to being blind, he had no legs. His pants were cut and tied, and he had a small black mat under him. Sensing I was lost in his plight, he again asked if I needed anything. I responded with a stutter, “Well, uh, I guess I’ll take a piece of gum.” I hadn’t chewed gum in years; I didn’t even like it, but I didn’t know what else to say. No, sounded too cold. But then just trying to offer him a donation might have been insulting. He again smiled softly acknowledging my request. I handed him a quarter and took the gum into my mouth. He dropped the quarter in a side pouch and then motioned for me to sit.

We talked for some time about Mexico and the United States, football, and the hot weather that we were having. I found the courage to ask him if he had any family. He told me about his daughter who was back in Mexico and how he had lost his legs while working in “black waters” in the fields of the Sonoran Valley to send her money. I again followed up with, “Is that how you lost your eyesight?” He laughed in a soft Buddha like chuckle. “Oh, I see alright. I can see shapes, but I’ve learned to rely on my other senses a little more. I get by, you know?” “Yeah,” I self-consciously retorted. But mentally, I thought, “Not really, what the hell could I know about that?” And yet, it wasn’t with pity I saw him. It was more with awe. He had something in that smile.

I realized then that I hadn’t shared anything about myself. I took the pause in conversation to extend my story, “Well, I grew up in Los Angeles, but my family moved here to San Francisco when I was six.” He interjected, “Would you mind reading me a story?” I startled, “Uh, what?” Whatever, I mentally dismissed. I wasn’t particularly excited to share my life’s tale anyways. “Sure, I can read you something.” His fingers fumbled over a collection of small books until he pulled out a tattered green one. “Ah, yes, this is the one. Please,” he added in an urging voice. It was small like a back pocket bible with fine print and thin paper and written by some Aztec sounding writer that I didn’t think I could pronounce. It seemed like a collection of short stories, so I naturally asked, “Which story would you like?” “The choice lies with you, my friend,” he responded as if in anticipation of the question. I flipped to the middle and then shuffled for the nearest start of a new story. The sun was setting low. Quickly I thought, “I hope this isn’t too long.” Then I drew in my breath taking in the cool late afternoon air and let out the first line.

The Dawn of a New Day

- Tlanextic

It was the dawn of a new time. The dark clouds of bitterness and social squalor had been washed away by the cool fragrant mountain breeze. Mira, who lost her mother and father in this tempestuous historical transition, came to these soft hills overlooking the sea to find clarity and resolve. She found herself standing in the same place every time pain or confusion confronted her mind. But today this dilemma burned deeper, brighter. Mira slowly sat upon the cool limestone outcropping. Specifically chosen for its smooth, coastal polish, it always helped to bring a soft, supple lens to her thinking. But, today she found only jagged and divergent lines in her mind. For within the first minutes of contemplation, she traveled endless roads searching for the proper destination. Each one branching out in a coral like pattern, like the little stick-figure winter trees she sketched as a child.

She remembered back to her childhood when a similar anguish reflected in the eyes of her father. Her dad sat silent and somber before reciting to her the lines of a famous poem written a hundred and fifty years earlier about a traveler who came to a fork in the road. Mira’s father foretold, “My dear girl, society has reached this point. But the present situation is such that down each path the grasses of the trail burn with such a fierce intensity that no blade or passerby will go untouched. Individually and collectively, society will have to move through these flames.” Mira remembered how her father had continued with increased gravity, “Some will choose to walk the path of ignobility and deceit and will die due to their selfish choices. Others will choose to walk the path of righteousness. They may still perish, but it will be in the flames of divinity.” While young Mira was not able to fully realize its significance, the tone of her father’s voice brought a cold chill to her heart. Sensing his daughter’s anxiety, her father held her and softened, “Do not alarm my girl, for from these ashes a truth greater than any society has ever witnessed will surely arise.”

It was these words she carried and remembered daily that emboldened her step and resolve. It was also due to these words that she did not feel any sadness at the loss of her family. They had fulfilled their purpose with honor and devotion. With their sacrifice fresh in mind, she found it easier to move ahead. Still, community pressure was weighing on her heart and mind. They sought to establish her firmly on the path of rebuilding this new society. It was a glorious sight to witness this transformation unfold. Her father had truly held great insight. The seeds of humanity that sprouted anew brought forth indelibly bright flowers never seen in human history. Society lived in communities of spirit where effort and intellect were utilized for the collective good. The eyes of the youth shone this ideal. They sparkled with collective purpose and inner devotion to God and beauty, the likes of which never before walked this earth when she was a girl.

Yet, Mira experienced first hand that this was not a utopia. Struggle and conflict were still an inescapable part of life. But, it was with more genuine compassion and moral steadfastness that challenges were embraced. The girl, who had already lived and seen so much, began to feel first hand these struggles. Social pressures sought to make her a wife and leader in her cooperative. Mira had worked for four years in an environmental restoration cooperative that applied cutting edge subtle research into the practical applications of Microvita. It was a theory propounded by the twentieth century revolutionary leader and spiritual guide P.R. Sarkar, whose ideas now flourished and guided this collective movement. Since the indiscretions of the past left deep scars in the earth, the planet faced great need for healing these wounds. She deeply loved her work and the cooperative models of business that supplanted the rule of the old giants of greed and destruction. Like pebbles thrown into a placid surface that reached out in ever increasing concentric circles, collective local communities were spreading and rebuilding from the ashes of an ego-centered past. The world awakened early to the sound of people singing God’s name, reverberating from hill top to hill top. And even the once menial tasks of daily life now seemed rewarding and meaningful.

Still, Mira held no peace of mind. This push for her to marry and fulfill her familial duty was overwhelming. While she mentally embraced this role with zeal, the intense spiritual vibration present in this new epoch pulled her away and inward. So great was her desire to permanently sit at the feet of the Lord that her mind could not often focus on the tasks at hand. And the needs of marriage would not allow for this. Service to the world and fledgling society was Mira’s duty. She knew it without thinking. It needed no reflection. But, to leave the infinite ocean of bliss that undulated within for the physical waters of this world was becoming unbearable. She pained for the ability to temporarily give up her love and need to be with the creator of these colors and forms.

It was in this anguish that she looked out to the sea. She counted whitecaps breaking in the vast horizon. Dancing. Rising and falling. How she wished to be a mere wave eternally gripped by the infinite sea. Or to be a single soft ray inseparable from the early morning sun. Gentle hues cast upon the land, perfect in every way. Mesmerized by the brilliant colors of the sky and the Cosmic play of the waves, Mira felt her mind settle, peeling away unease. Gazing into a nearing swell, she saw this heavenly dance, peacefully ensconced in the center. Little by little, it grew in size and force. It was then she realized that God had made this decision for her. The impending wave was not of the sea, but the solemn, fluid touch of the Creator setting upon her with insurmountable force. Mira released her clenched fists. She softened her fingers. Mist swept, she extended each palm towards His feet. The duties to continue the march towards a new and glorious society were designed and designated in the mind of the Master Architect. Her Master was satisfied; Mira had laid her final brick.

The significance of this last line still played in my mind as I softly closed the book. Placing the book back on his tray, my eyes met his. A tear slowly rolled down my cheek. “Thank you,” I shared with a smile. He simply smiled back and gazed out towards the surrounding hills. I got up and walked off. I had been given the gift of sight. I had seen with new eyes what is and what will be. With resolve and a sense of purpose, I looked out towards the now darkened sky with a new light in my mind. Tomorrow was the dawn of a new day.