Angel Chavez

The Blue Glow of Jasmine

Luca irately heaves the weathered gray journal with the metallic nodules to the back of the rundown tent. Then he returned to digging through the tattered crates and various piles strewn about the dwelling with an anxious fervor. However, hours past sunset the shadows cover more than the dim yellowed light touches. The obnoxious roar and crash of the waves muffle any forming thoughts. The humid dense wind sprays the salted sand past the thrashing frayed entrance. Sweat stings Luca’s searching eye as he overturns the worn throw rug carpeting the ground. A makeshift knife caught on the underside of the woven threads flings loose and sticks in the ground just outside. Winded and frustrated, the tall thin leather skinned man stands to rub his eyes and notices the dark liquid leaking from the side of his hand. He reaches for the nearest cloth, a wholly white and blue “Lone Star Grill” T-shirt, to wipe his eyes and then wrap his hand. Hearing the shuffling of sand, Luca spins around and prepares to use the shirt as a roped weapon. A short stout older black man pulls the knife from its landing spot and enters the tent.