Part VIII - The Weight of Creation
Isaiah left the house early, sketchbook tucked under his arm. The sidewalks still held last night's heat, the air sharp with gasoline and fried food from the corner stand.
As he neared Eddie's porch, the block shifted. Music spilled from open windows, steady and smooth, like Eddie's place had its own pulse. Eddie leaned against the railing, tall and confident, flashing a grin that pulled everyone in. A crowd of older teens and young men clustered around him, drinks in hand, laughter echoing down the block.
Eddie moved like a man born to own space, rolling crumpled bills in his palm before sliding them into his pocket, edges stained from who-knows-where. But it wasn't just the money that made heads turn—it was the way Eddie's eyes stayed sharp, scanning, always searching for the next spark he could grab. A skinny teen strummed a beat-up guitar at the corner of the steps, shaky but trying. Eddie leaned down, snatched a few chords out of the air with his voice, and laughed, clapping the boy on the back.
"Keep at it, lil' man. Might make you something yet. Just don't forget who heard you first."
The boy's grin faltered, unsure if it was a blessing or a warning. Eddie didn't give him time to answer; he was already turned toward another voice, another chance to siphon energy.
Isaiah slowed without meaning to. Eddie had a way of making the block revolve around him, like gravity. For a moment, Isaiah wondered if people would ever look at him like that—if comics could draw a crowd the same way. He hugged his sketchbook tighter and hurried past toward Marcus's garage.
The garage sat tucked between houses, its old roll-up door groaning as Marcus pushed it open. Inside, the air smelled of oil and hot dust, with a faint tang of toner from the copy machine against the wall. Shelves sagged with jars of nails, busted radios, and paint cans stacked two high. A single bulb hung low from the ceiling, buzzing slightly, but the workbench beneath it was cleared—paper stacked neatly, scissors sharp, stapler waiting.
It wasn't spotless, but it was sacred. The broom leaned in the corner like a quiet guard, sweep marks fresh on the concrete. The copier hummed steadily, like a heartbeat. Faded posters of Muhammad Ali and Kareem looked down from the walls, watching over the kids as they folded, pressed, and stapled with their small, eager hands. In here, chaos turned into order. Noise turned into creation.
The first batch of comics didn't stay long. Marcus slipped a few to the corner store on Florence, where the cashier set them by the register. The rest moved through the swap meet, traded for crumpled bills and loose change. Even the barbershop took some, pinning copies to mirrors where customers could flip through while they waited.
Isaiah counted the earnings carefully. Thirty dollars in coins and wrinkled bills sat in a small tin, each one a victory. Thirty comics sold. Thirty small proofs that people wanted what he and the crew were making.
Rico leaned over, grinning. "See? People like it. They really like it."
Isaiah's chest warmed. He traced a finger along the edge of a fresh copy, careful not to smudge the ink. "It… It's alive," he whispered.
The twins giggled as they stacked the comics, still learning the rhythm of folding, pressing, and stapling. Marcus observed quietly, pride in his calm posture.
"Not just making comics," he said, voice steady. "You're learning to move together. Count the toner, respect the paper, mind your edges. Small victories like these matter more than you think."
By the time the second batch was ready, Eddie drifted over, leaning against the curb outside. His smile was smooth but sharp, like a knife wrapped in velvet.
"You've got something people want," Eddie said, nodding at the comics spread across the table. "I could help you sell more. Everywhere. Bigger bucks, bigger reach."
Isaiah's fingers clenched the half-finished stack. "I… I don't think we need help," he stammered. His eyes darted to Marcus, who stayed quiet but alert.
Marcus stepped forward, steady hand on Isaiah's shoulder. "Thanks, Eddie. But this is the kids' work. Their rules."
Eddie's grin tightened. He leaned in closer, voice dropping low. "Rules don't make money. You could be selling hundreds. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."
Isaiah swallowed hard. He thought of the thirty comics already sold, the tin of coins and bills hidden in the garage, their little treasure chest. He had never held that much before. And it was theirs—his and the kids'.
He straightened, voice small but firm. "It's ours. We made it. You can't take it."
Eddie's eyes narrowed, the grin fading. "We'll see," he said, voice low and warning. "Every empire's got cracks, kid." He turned and walked off, leaving the garage heavy with silence.
Isaiah stood frozen for a moment, chest tight, hands still clutching the sketchbook. The weight of the day pressed down—the victories, the coins, and now Eddie's shadow looming over them all. Slowly, he stepped out of the garage, feeling the evening air wrap around him, cooler than the afternoon heat.
The streets had quieted, the neighborhood shifting with the falling sun. Shadows stretched long along the cracked sidewalks. He hugged his sketchbook tighter, walking past familiar corners now softened by dusk. The laughter and music from earlier had faded, replaced by the occasional bark of a dog or the distant hum of a car engine.
By the time he reached Eddie's porch, the block had transformed. Music was gone. The porch lay littered with crushed cans and glass bottles, glinting like broken teeth in the streetlight. Two men slumped in chairs, heads tipped back in shadows. A woman stumbled down the steps, mascara smeared, heels dangling from her hand. Near the curb, a car with tinted windows idled, smoke curling from the open glass, voices low and sharp inside.
Isaiah hugged his sketchbook closer, small hands trembling. The shine he had seen that morning was gone, replaced with the raw, jagged edges of the street at night. He forced himself to breathe, reminding himself: every empire has cracks—but this one, the one he was building, was still his.
Isaiah hugged his sketchbook closer, his small hands trembling.
I've been here before, he thought, once in another life. I've held empires, created wonders… now it's all smaller, yet the same spark is inside me. He tightened his grip on the sketchbook. Every comic, every coin, every fold—this is my new empire. I have to protect it. I can't let it slip away.
Bursting into the house, he called out, "Mom! Mom! I… I sold thirty comics today! Thirty!"
Maria emerged from the kitchen, concern flickering in her eyes. "Thirty? That's… amazing, Isaiah. But your face—what's wrong? You look like you've seen something."
"Nothing, Mama," he said quickly, forcing a grin.
Maria stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. "You're lying. Your hands are shaking. Your chest… did Eddie scare you?"
Isaiah hesitated, heart hammering. He opened his mouth, then closed it, swallowing the truth. "No, Mama. I'm fine. Really."
Her brow furrowed, sharp and piercing. "Don't lie to me, Isaiah. I can feel it. My boy, you're afraid, and that's okay—but hiding it won't protect you."
She always knows, he thought, chest tightening. Even now, I can't hide from her. He held the sketchbook closer. "I… I just… walked fast past Eddie's porch. That's all."
Maria placed a hand on his shoulder, strong and steady. "Fast… or scared? You don't have to face him alone. You're smart, mijo, and brave—but smart and brave together beats fear."
Marcus came up beside them, his calm presence filling the room. "Maria, Eddie's the type to drain everything—money, talent, any spark he can find. But here, in the garage? Isaiah is safe. This is paper, pencils, and toner. Creation. Nothing Eddie does can reach him."
Maria's eyes softened slightly, but her worry remained. "I can't lose him, Marcus. He's all I've got."
Marcus stepped closer, voice steady, persuasive. "And you won't. I'll keep him away from the parties, the porch, and anyone who wants to snatch his spark. Nothing touches him. Not here, not ever. You have my word."
Her jaw stayed tight, but finally, she let out a slow breath. She bent down and kissed Isaiah's forehead. "Mi vida, mi corazón."
She looked at Marcus, eyes still cautious. "One chance. If I even feel something's wrong, it ends."
Marcus nodded. "Fair enough. Nothing happens to him. I swear."
Isaiah clung to Maria, caught between her desperate love and Marcus's calm, persuasive assurance. I am reborn, he thought, and this time, I get to do it right.
He hugged his sketchbook tight, the coins, the comics, and the victories of the day pressing against him like a fragile weight he had to protect. The echoes of Eddie's warning lingered at the edges of his mind, but for the first time, he felt the steady pulse of control—not power over others, but over what he could create and keep safe.
Later, under the thin blanket in his bedroom, the apartment quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside, Isaiah let himself breathe. He traced the edges of the sketchbook, feeling every crease and staple as a reminder of what he had built. He imagined himself larger, older, the titan of another life—strong, unyielding, unstoppable. The worlds he had created before seemed to live inside him still, ready to be built again.
I can feel it inside me, he thought, eyes closing. The spark, the vision… the chance to create again. Small hands, small comics, but the same mind, the same fire. Step by step, page by page… I am building it. My empire. My life.
Even as the shadows of Eddie's porch lingered in his thoughts, he felt something else—power, purpose, and the unmistakable thrill of rebirth. Marcus had arrived before his mother that evening, Isaiah realized later, knowing she would worry. That calm foresight, that steady presence… it gave him the space to rest, to gather his strength, to keep building his world without fear.
With the sketchbook tucked safely under his arm, Isaiah let sleep take him. Tomorrow, the city would wake, the streets would move, and the challenges would come—but tonight, he rested. The spark was alive, and it was his.