#First Paragraph for an unfinished coloring book

The Diner

Vince spread some Shea butter lotion on his dark skin and replaced the lotion in his backpack. He looked down at his phone and tapped the screen, texting his wife in between bites of food right before his late-night shift started. The Diner was empty right now but he knew the regulars would be streaming in soon. He put on his crisp, white apron with its tough but soft-feel fabric and the small cloth hat with black lines. The ring of the doorbell abruptly interrupted his musing and text messaging. He walked out of the short, plastic-walled hallway that connected the main dining area and kitchen to the small staff and storage area in the back.

The Swedish Connection

Alcohol is a funny thing. When we are young, it is a symbol of adult privilege. It’s one of those things that you get to do
“when you’re older.” Much like driving, the first drink is a rite of passage. Many take that rite of passage in secret with their friends in basements, garages, barns, and parks. Alcohol is a funny thing. It doesn’t taste so great at first but young people want to be cool and take advantage of the special privilege so everyone gets used to the taste. For some people, it becomes their reason for living – which is another level of depression caused by some people fermenting and distilling things to create the magic that is alcohol.

The Kingdom of Nordstrom

The rain pelted against the blue fabric of the tarp. Beads of moisture ran off onto the ground. Inside the shelter, Jon rolled over one more time, hoping for a few more precious minutes of sleep. He finally rolled onto his back and opened his eyes to the green fabric of the tent.
“Fuck.”
He lifted his thin body up onto his elbows. The day was grey; it didn’t even look like the sun had come up yet. He used his gloved fingers to dust himself off, slipped on his gas mask and scooted outside the tent to look around. He opened up the first flap of the tent and put on his mask. Then he opened the second flap to the open air. He took his binoculars out of his pack and surveyed the area. He didn’t see any movement and, replacing the device, decided to get around to the business of breakfast. He stepped back into the tent, removed his gas mask and moved into the bigger area of the tent.

America Discount World

The gentle waters of Lake Union lapped against the edge of his large house boat. He rolled off his sturdy foam mattress and stood up. He draped a robe around his body and scratched his hairy belly, then tugged at the tight trunk underwear that covered him. He poked his head out of the patio door for a moment. The puffy grey clouds passed by over his nearly bald head. Dale stretched a bit, slipped off his robe and started to perform some calisthenics on the small patio. The patio just fit his compact 5’ 8” frame as he performed a series of pushups. In fifteen minutes he stood back up and looked at the sky again.
“Just a break in between the rain,” he said aloud. He clenched his eyes shut and shut the patio door, then pulled the long white curtains over the big glass doors.

The Classy Drug Dealer

Andrej leaned against the large washing machine and browsed his magazine. He wore a neatly ironed shirt tucked into
slim-fitting slacks. The broad collar of the shirt stood open. He flipped through the pages and looked around the large laundromat, shifting in his leather loafers. Four rows of washers and four banks of dryers lined the airy space. Metal exhaust pipes for the dryers dominated the tall ceilings. Behind the counter, a register and card machine stood, well worn. A large automatic clothing rack filled with clothes neatly draped in thin plastic filled the space behind. From the counter, customers could see the large orange dry cleaning machines with the colored tubes and hoses sprouting out of the side of them.

Beverly Gardens

Los Angeles is dotted with small apartment complexes, mostly built in the sixties and seventies. Although many of them have been torn down as the city grew, making the land under them more valuable than the people who lived within them, many still dot the flat landscape of southern California. Beverly Gardens had been standing in the California sun for about forty years and thanks to a lack of maintenance the stucco exterior had seen better days. The parking lot was dominated by various late model cars in various states of repair. Some of the cars had different colored body pieces and others had windows covered in plastic where glass had once been. The parking lot had been chip sealed several times and the paint on the parking spots was faded and cracked.

Windswept Wastes

I drifted here. I drifted there. I grew up in New Jersey but I never stayed anywhere too long after my wife left me while
I was in Vietnam. I went over there, two tours, 25th infantry, April 10, 1965 to June 14, 1966 and then I went right back from September 11, 1966 to October 5, 1967. I was at war and she was bedding down a guy who was 4F, bone spurs or some shit like that. I meanwhile was 1A, prime fighting stock. We were only married to avoid the draft anyway, but then they started drafting married guys and I was in it. I didn’t mind. Saw some horrible shit over there though.

Sanctuary

Kevin stood on one pedal of his bike and let it roll to a stop. He pulled up the hood of his hoodie and rolled his bike towards the garage. He tapped in the code and the door rose up. He dropped his bike in the garage and started into the house and upstairs to his room. He closed the door behind him and slipped off his backpack. His bedroom floor was littered with clothes, a few bottles, and books. His phone buzzed. He ran his hand through his blond hair and stripped off his shirt off his, youthful toned body. He tapped the screen.

The Ticket

Topher flicked the butt of his cigarette into the water off the concrete pier. He checked his watch for the time.
“Time to quit and go do paperwork,” he said out loud to the breeze of the Seattle afternoon. The sky was covered in light clouds, letting a little bit of sun through. He started walking away from the end of the pier and under the silent cranes towards the office to end his day. He filled out his required paperwork and clocked out. He replaced his card in the wall file and started walking out to his truck. He opened up the door. It squeaked loudly as usual and he climbed into the dusty cab covered with papers and food wrappers. He started the truck and looked at the gas gauge. It hovered below a quarter of a tank and he put the truck into gear. “Good thing payday is tomorrow,” he thought. He drove over the tall West Seattle Bridge and threaded through Fauntleroy Street to a small apartment building. He pulled the truck to a stop and jumped out.

The RKO Killer

Farben sat on the stairs tying his shoes. He stood up and moved through the short foyer of his apartment towards the kitchen. The smell of breakfast floated through the air. He opened the pocket doors revealing Mrs. Fowler hard at work on the stove in the kitchen. Farben slid into the breakfast nook. A thoughtful gaze through the window revealed the sun was muted by the morning clouds, on the move from the familiar wind of the Windy City.