Aurora is a woman in her late 50's who as a child, dreamt of becoming a writer. She wrote poems and short
stories, keeping them to herself. At 22 she stopped writing for the next 35 years. In 2005 she survived an
erupted brain aneurism. This incident brought home to her that life was indeed short and that she should
pursue her dream of writing. She started writing poems and was encouraged by friends to enroll in the UCLA
Writer's Program. She is currently enrolled in her 11th on-line class with the anticipation of receiving her
certificate in mid 2009.
stories, keeping them to herself. At 22 she stopped writing for the next 35 years. In 2005 she survived an
erupted brain aneurism. This incident brought home to her that life was indeed short and that she should
pursue her dream of writing. She started writing poems and was encouraged by friends to enroll in the UCLA
Writer's Program. She is currently enrolled in her 11th on-line class with the anticipation of receiving her
certificate in mid 2009.
Boy in a Red Sweater
He tossed around a Baby Ruth, his eyes wide like an electric shock, scratching as if bugs burrowed beneath his skin. Ripping
the paper from Ruth, he crammed her into his mouth, chocolate saliva running down his chin while he danced in place like a
kid needing to pee. His eyes brushed me aside as he ran up Western Avenue into an alley paved with black tar and angel's
dust, where lost souls were known to score.
When I saw him again he was sitting on a crate on the side of the liquor store. He rose from his perch, his feet not touching
ground, smiling to himself until he saw me, then tried to straighten up, picking imaginary lint from his red sweater, his eye lids
half closed, his words rolling like marbles on a slanted floor. Something about how pretty I looked as I rushed by.
Next time I saw him, he was in a navy blue suit, his mother sat across from him, the veil of her black church hat hiding her
eyes. The sisters on the Usher Board patted her on the back whispering words of God's Will and promises of a lemon pie
made with condensed milk that she like so well -- neither eased her pain.
One by one we passed -- me afraid to look at him should he wake up and reach out to me, but his hands were laid neatly
across his chest, his eyes closed. Although I think he smiled as I walked by.
He tossed around a Baby Ruth, his eyes wide like an electric shock, scratching as if bugs burrowed beneath his skin. Ripping
the paper from Ruth, he crammed her into his mouth, chocolate saliva running down his chin while he danced in place like a
kid needing to pee. His eyes brushed me aside as he ran up Western Avenue into an alley paved with black tar and angel's
dust, where lost souls were known to score.
When I saw him again he was sitting on a crate on the side of the liquor store. He rose from his perch, his feet not touching
ground, smiling to himself until he saw me, then tried to straighten up, picking imaginary lint from his red sweater, his eye lids
half closed, his words rolling like marbles on a slanted floor. Something about how pretty I looked as I rushed by.
Next time I saw him, he was in a navy blue suit, his mother sat across from him, the veil of her black church hat hiding her
eyes. The sisters on the Usher Board patted her on the back whispering words of God's Will and promises of a lemon pie
made with condensed milk that she like so well -- neither eased her pain.
One by one we passed -- me afraid to look at him should he wake up and reach out to me, but his hands were laid neatly
across his chest, his eyes closed. Although I think he smiled as I walked by.
Aurora Lewis
