Sierra Santiago and the Invisible City

Chapter 7 - Blackout

It was as if someone had simply pulled the plug on the entire world. Sierra's whole body tensed up as all the thrill of the past hour fluttered away. In the distance, a murky glow emanated from the direction of Manhattan, but it was a cloudy night and she couldn't quite tell how far the black out reached. From somewhere close by came the screech of breaks, a horn and cursing. Urgent sirens wailed out into the darkness from different directions.

If the lights go out for good we are lost.

As Sierra's eyes adjusted to the darkness she made out the ghostly outline of the archway over Grand Army Plaza. A cop car came racing down Eastern Parkway, its frantic blue and red strobes splattering out across the darkness. It let out two high-pitched blurts of the siren and zipped off towards Flatbush Ave. Somewhere people yelled back and forth to each other like a citywide game of Marco Polo.

"Why so serious?" a small voice asked from behind her. Sierra dropped her board to the ground and turned quickly around, her fists raised. There was nothing there. The elaborate stone gates of Prospect Park opened into a vast emptiness that made her shudder. From the air directly in front of her, the voice let out a good-natured chuckle. Then she saw it, sort of: a silky plume of light gray smoke accumulating before her eyes. Sierra took a few steps back, half wanting to jump on her board and disappear into the blacked out streets of Brooklyn, half frozen by terror and fascination. She took a deep breath and was startled to find that the thick musty smell of Malagueñas filled the air around her. The cloud of smoke formed itself into a roundish shape roughly the size of a couch cushion and hovered just above the ground, jiggling ever so slightly. It appeared to be laughing.

"El oh well..." said the voice.

"Excuse me?"

Another few chuckles. "Come with me," the cloud said.

"The hell I will."

"Come on, mami, we going into the park." Its accent was not quite Puerto Rican but not Dominican either. A certain melodic mischievousness lurked between each word, and in spite of herself, Sierra actually wanted to go with him.

"I don't talk to strangers. Especially when they're clouds of smoke."

"You talk to walls though, eh?"

"How did you know...?" Several puzzle pieces clicked together inside her racing mind. "The plume of smoke. Of course. The murals. You're the one been changing the murals?"

"No, mami," laughed the cloud. "No, but I been keeping my eye on you, you know, from time to time, checking in. But listen- you come with me now, okay? We going in the park."

"What makes you think I'm going anywhere with you, least of all a dark empty deserted field? You crazy?"

"You are the one talking to a cloud of smoke." Another extended chortle came drifting out from in front of her. "Oh, el ohwell!" laughed the cloud. Sierra tried to suppress a smile but the laughter was contagious. And he had a point.

"Why do you keep saying that?" she demanded.

"¿Qúe?"

"Why do you keep saying..."

"That's how you laugh, no? I have been reading up on how to speak teenager American so we can communicate you and me."

"Been reading what?"

"You know, on the computer. Late at night. How you call them? Cuarto de conversar...talk rooms?

"You been messing around in chat rooms? No wonder. Look, it means Laughing Out Loud. El oh el. The letters. Get it?"