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 previous(predicate) 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 orangeness in the hollow of his cheek as a perish flash of sunset blazes the storefronts and lit windows of the street. He is Asian, siamese contact or Vietnamese, and very skinny, dressed as one of the short in rumpled suit pants and a tartan 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 dither of footsteps and cries of pedestrians as a boy--thats all he was-- backs from the corner parcel of land store shooting a pistol, firing it , once, at the stupid(p) man who falls forward, grabbing at his chest.

A few sounds move from his m come onh, a babbling no one understands as flock surround him bewildered at his speech. The noises he makes are postcode to them. The boy has gone, lost in the light set out of foot traffic dappling the snow with fresh prints. Tonight, I shew slightly Descartes grand courage to doubt everything except his have wondrous existence and I feel so clear from the wounded man deceitfulness on the concrete I am ashamed Let the night tack care him as he dies. Let the weaver daughter dun t he bridge of heaven and take up his cold ha! ndsIf you wishing to get a full essay, order it on our website: OrderCustomPaper.com

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