Part IV – Shadows and Sparks
Night settled heavy over South Central, a blanket stitched with sirens and the distant rattle of gunfire. In the cramped apartment, Maria hummed softly while folding laundry, her voice faint but steady, like a candle against the dark.
Abuela sat in her worn rocking chair, her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. The air smelled of sage—she had burned a bundle earlier, muttering prayers in Spanish to keep bad spirits at bay. Her eyes followed Isaiah as he crouched in the corner, chalk dust still caked under his fingernails, sketching on a scrap of cardboard he had dragged inside.
"You draw too much, mijo," Abuela said, her tone stern but her eyes warm. "Your hands will turn to chalk themselves."
Isaiah looked up, grinning with his toddler's crooked teeth. "Maybe then I can draw faster."
Abuela chuckled, shaking her head. She leaned forward, her rosary beads clicking softly in her hand. "You know, long before you were born, we told stories too. Not with cartoons, but with fire and song. We had the ave fénix—a great bird of flame. When it died, it rose again from ashes, stronger. Do you understand?"
Isaiah's grin faded. He did understand. In fact, he understood too well. He was that bird, reborn in a new body with the ashes of an old life still clinging to him.
"Phoenix," he whispered, tracing the word into the cardboard.
Abuela nodded slowly, her eyes gleaming. "Yes. Maybe that's what you're drawing, eh? Maybe these heroes you make… they're like the phoenix too."
Isaiah felt a jolt of recognition. She wasn't wrong. Goku wasn't just a boy with spiky hair anymore—he was the phoenix, the rising fire that refused to be chained.
The next day, Isaiah carried that fire back into the courtyard.
Marcus was already there, sketching a panther in mid-leap across the cement. He looked up and smirked when he saw Isaiah dragging a battered shoebox filled with scraps of cardboard, broken chalk pieces, and stubby pencils he'd scavenged.
"You came ready," Marcus said.
"Always," Isaiah replied, though his voice squeaked in his toddler pitch.
The kids gathered again, their laughter bouncing between the walls of the housing complex. Rico carried a busted toy car, which he insisted was going to be Goku's "secret ride." A girl named Marisol brought a notebook and began scribbling their adventures into shaky sentences.
Together, they began building something bigger.
Isaiah sketched Goku at the center of their world, chalk aura blazing like fire. Around him, the villains loomed again—Greed Lord Pilaf clutching bags of coins, Shadow Cop Shu crouching with handcuffs glinting, Chain Woman Mai tightening her chains around the block.
But this time, Isaiah added something new. A great bird with wings of fire, rising behind Goku. The Phoenix.
"This bird," he explained, pointing with his chalk-stained finger, "isn't just from my head. My abuela told me. It dies, but it comes back stronger. Just like us. Just like this block."
The kids murmured, nodding, some whispering the word fénix under their breath.
Marcus crouched low, studying the lines. "That's good, kid. That's roots. You take from what came before, and you make it speak now."
Isaiah kept drawing, letting the chalk dust turn his hands white. He explained as he worked, his voice steady:
"The Greed Lord is the landlord. He takes your home. The Shadow Cop is the one who's always watching. And Chain Woman…" His small hand trembled as he drew chains coiling around buildings. "…She's poverty. She keeps you stuck. But Goku and the Phoenix—they break those chains."
The kids' eyes burned with recognition. These weren't just stories anymore—they were the block itself, painted in bright colors they could finally understand.
Marisol looked up from her notebook. "So we're the Phoenix too, right?"
Isaiah paused, then nodded. "Yeah. All of us."
The courtyard buzzed with energy, alive with chalk, stories, and laughter. Mothers leaned out of their windows again, half-smiling despite their weariness. Even Maria paused on her way home from work, drawn by the sound of her son's voice leading the other kids.
But not every gaze was kind.
At the edge of the courtyard, Eddie lingered again, his gold chain catching the last rays of sun. He lit a cigarette, smoke curling like a question mark above his head. His eyes weren't on the kids—they were on Isaiah, sharp and hungry.
Marcus saw him too. He stepped closer to Isaiah, his voice dropping low. "Remember what I said. Not every fan's a friend. Some people see light, and all they want is to snuff it out—or sell it."
Isaiah swallowed hard, but he didn't stop drawing. He pressed the chalk down harder, sketching the Phoenix larger, wings spread wide, fire licking the sky. He wasn't just drawing anymore. He was declaring.
This is ours. This story belongs to us.
The Phoenix glowed in bright orange and red chalk, a defiant blaze against the cracked gray pavement. And in that moment, under the watchful eyes of Abuela's old wisdom, Marcus's hardened gaze, the kids' laughter, and Eddie's calculating smirk—Isaiah knew:
The battle wasn't just in chalk. It was coming, real and close.
And when it did, the Phoenix would rise.