Part VI - The Spark of a Dream
Sunlight spilled through the blinds, cutting thin, trembling stripes across the apartment. Isaiah's eyes fluttered open, small and wary, curling closer to Maria's chest. Her steady heartbeat pressed into him, warm and constant, pulling him slowly from sleep. Maria hummed softly, folding laundry nearby, the rhythm of cloth rustling echoing the quiet pulse of the city beyond the walls.
"Good morning, mijo," she said. "Did you sleep all right?"
"I… I think so," Isaiah whispered, eyelids heavy but attentive.
"You don't have to get up yet," she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Just stay here a minute longer. Breathe. The world can wait."
Isaiah stayed curled against her, feeling the pull of the sketchbook on the table, the small empire of imagination he had begun building with stubby pencils and scraps of paper.
"Mama…" he whispered. "I… I want to show my comics to people. Like… real people. Not just the kids in the courtyard."
Maria paused, needle hovering mid-stitch. "Show them, mijo? You mean… give them away?"
Isaiah shook his head, cheeks flushing. "No… not give away. I want… I want to publish them. Like the comics on the shelf. Iron Man, Spider-Man… I want mine to be like that. In stores. For people to buy."
Maria folded her hands, brow furrowed. "Publish? That's a big dream, Isaiah. It takes money, time… connections. And you're so young, mijo. Why not just keep drawing for now? Let the stories grow."
Isaiah's shoulders slumped, but the fire in his chest didn't fade. "I know it's big, Mama. But… I can feel them. Goku, Bulma, Krillin—they're real to me. They have stories, mistakes… like me. I want other people to feel them too. To know they can fall and rise, just like I'm trying to."
Maria's expression softened. "It's not just about drawing, mijo. Publishing means printing, selling, finding stores… It's a lot of work. And what if people don't buy them? What if it's too much for you right now?"
Isaiah's small hands trembled, but he met her gaze. "I know it's hard. But I'm not scared to try. I… I don't have a lot, Mama. No dad, no… no one else. But I have these stories. They're mine. And if I can make them real for someone else, maybe… maybe I can be something more, too."
Maria leaned back, eyes glistening. She brushed a hand across his cheek. "You're already something more, Isaiah. You don't need comics to prove that."
He swallowed, cheeks burning. "I know, Mama. But… I want to try. I want to make something that lasts. Something people can hold. Please… will you help me?"
Maria sighed, glancing at the sketchbook—its pages worn from constant revisions—and then back at him. "Alright, mijo. I don't know much about publishing, but I know someone who might. Rico, down at the print shop. He's helped with flyers and booklets before. If you're serious—if you're ready to work hard—I'll talk to him. But you have to promise me you'll keep going, even if it's tough."
Isaiah's face lit up. "I promise, Mama. I'll work hard. I'll make every page matter."
Maria pulled him into a gentle hug. "Then we'll try, mijo. Together. But first, finish those drawings. Make them as alive as you feel they are."
The next morning, Isaiah rose early, sketchbook and pencils in hand. Sunlight warmed the cracked sidewalk, carrying the faint scent of grilled street corn and exhaust fumes. Yards of laundry swayed in the breeze, children's toys scattered across concrete, and a stray cat slinked through a patch of sun. Graffiti streaked walls in bursts of color, telling stories of the streets he knew like the back of his hand. Every sight, every sound, felt alive, thrumming in rhythm with the stories he carried in his chest.
Inside the garage, the faint smell of ink and paper greeted him. Rico crouched beside a half-finished stack of comics, fingers smudged with black ink. "Hey… you're the kid Maria's been talking about, right?"
"I… I guess," Isaiah whispered, taking in the blank pages like a world waiting to be born.
Rico stood, wiping his hands on a rag. "Isaiah, meet Malik and Jahlil. They'll help us out. Fast learners, excited about your comics."
Malik, tall and mischievous, grinned. "Yo, you're the one drawing Goku? That's dope! I wanna see him fight!"
Jahlil, quieter, held up a neatly folded sheet. "I… I like Bulma. She's smart. You draw her cool."
Isaiah's smile was small but genuine. "Thanks… I'm trying to make them real."
Rico slid over a sheet. "Here. Try this. Don't worry if you mess up. We all do at first."
Isaiah's pencil hovered, imagining Goku lifting a fish nearly his size. Each line mirrored his small, determined struggle. Rico chuckled softly. "Relax. Watch my hands first."
As Rico demonstrated, Isaiah mirrored every curve and shadow. Malik and Jahlil followed suit, aligning pages and folding stacks with care. The hum of pencils and paper became a pulse, syncing with the rhythm of his comic world.
Page 1: Dawn-slick forest, leaves glistening with dew. Goku drags a fish across a dirt path, while Bulma streaks across a distant highway. A hand reaches for a conch shell, hiding wisdom for those who dare to look.
Page 2: Pilaf hunched over a map, small tokens glinting in sunlight. "One spell. One wish. One name bigger than mine," he mutters.
Page 3: Goku and Bulma's paths cross—shy, tense, the world tilting under the weight of their first encounter.
Page 4: Master Roshi observes storms more than parties, perched silently while Pilaf's scouts bring news of a child's treasure. Caption: "The Pilaf Saga begins — with a wish, a theft, a friendship, and a fire that will not go out."
Isaiah tightened his grip on the pencil, feeling the rhythm of the garage echo in every stroke. Every fold and staple mirrored Goku's careful steps.
Rico glanced up. "So… this is your story?"
Isaiah nodded. "Yeah… it's… like the real stuff we're doing… but bigger. Everything matters here, too."
Malik leaned closer. "Goku's carrying a huge fish?"
Isaiah smiled faintly. "Yeah… he's small, but he's brave. Just like… us."
Marcus, wiping the copier nearby, added softly, "Whether it's paper or pencils, treat it with respect. That's what makes it alive."
By mid-morning, the first chapter of the Pilaf Saga was complete. Isaiah traced each line, whispering to himself: "It breathes… it really breathes."
Sunlight streamed across the floorboards, catching the edges of the pages. Outside, life moved on, unaware of the small empire growing quietly—a world where bravery, mistakes, and triumph intertwined seamlessly, in ink and in life.