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florida sun sophie eden

Vehicles roar by. To and from. Here to there. Going, going. The sun blazes on metal. Rusty and abused. Glossy and fresh. People moving. People fleeing. People sleeping.

People race by. Escaping to a brief vacation. Days of burning on crowded beaches with harsh sand. Days of lounging in chlorine pools with too many bodies. Running to a future of promised beach chairs and margaritas. Breaking from the confines of nine to fives and scripted civility. Running into the open arms of expectations. The sun is heavy in Florida. The air is thick. There are clouds, at times, but the sun breaks through them. Summer thunderstorms. Warm rain. Palms with sparse shade and scraggly pines.

Rental cars chug in. Reluctant to leave the tantalizing beaches and roller coasters. Bodies are exhausted by the unflinching sun. Vehicles purring. Running to business trips. Eager to leave the problems of home unsolved. Palms sway from the rush of cars.

A plain, white plane perches on the side of the road, nose buried into the grass. The bottom is open. A dummy in a white suit and helmet hangs from the open undercarriage. An attraction. The black harness around its chest is thick and sure. The end is hidden inside the plane, caught on an invisible barrier. Cars roar by. Transport trucks. Rented hatchbacks. Smooth sedans. Livestock trailers. People race by.


Profile for Westwind: UCLA's Journal of the Arts

Westwind Winter 2016  

Westwind Winter 2016