Dreams hold the strings bringing life to
Fantasies playing out in
Minds at slumber, so she does toil.
Nocturnal labors of love;
She the entrepreneurial
Spirit in the night -
Creations conceived in Copper,
Of silver, of glass and in gold.
Fastened to a fashion, fusing
Antique with iridescent, as
Earth tones harmonize amid
Coils and loops, bangles and hoops.
In the heart of the night, the white shine
Of the moon must compete with the
Fire and Ice in her hands -
For at this hour, she is the creator.
With heart and soul, she creates shiny things.
Summer was a burning blade rippling through the streets of Manhattan. It made ovens out of the tenements in Harlem and mocked the struggling window units that dotted their brick facades. Perspiration coated the nameless faces that passed beneath the open mesh of Mallorie Ortiz’s fire escape. She sat, leaning forward against its bars, her hair hanging loose in a tumbling cascade, her tan, sandaled feet dangling high above the broiling pavement. Traffic was grid-locked and noisy at that hour; the poisonous smell of diesel exhaust just typical city incense.
“Eat something.” Her mother hurried past the living room window, fixing a final bobby pin to a neatly restrained bun of black hair, her feet twisting into a pair of sensible shoes. Stopping at the mirror, she applied dark lipstick and tossed the tube in the pocket of her apron. “Mallorie!” she shouted, glancing out the window while she clipped on a small teardrop earring. “You’ll be late.