Cityscape in our eyes...

By Kristin Bivens
If the city were a woman, she wouldn’t be a cheerleader, but she’d definitely be the popular girl in high school.

She’s a heartbreaker, after all. She’s reminiscent of Edna Pontellier in Kate Chopin’s The Awakening—she’s realizing her potential and not letting any one person posses her, she is the people’s woman.

Her bright lights are like diamonds draped over the soft nape of her neck. She’s one’s light in the dark. She’s the woman of multiple faces. On one side, she’s a poverty-stricken single mother. On the other side, she’s Oprah and all her favorite things.

She’s a woman full of Midwest charm with a dash of worldly flavor. Her cold wind is the life and yearning that lives inside of her. She welcomes all countries. She does not judge. Michigan Avenue is her beautiful, head turning face. Wrigleyville and the White Sox, her full breathing lungs.

She’s a feminist dedicated to chivalry and the Old English gentleman. She’s a contradiction—breaking dreams and making dreams.

She’s like Cleopatra, with a greatness so real it’s endearing. She’s the type of woman every man wants to see and every woman wants to be. She’s kept her wits about her. She’s highly educated but humbled.

Her beauty and achievements have not made her haughty. She’s a bit loud at times and when she is, everyone listens. She’s a little dangerous, which only adds to the excitement.

And if anyone asks, she likes her whiskey straight up with a pink paper umbrella on the side.

* * * *

By Cassandra Dowell
An African-American male and female, presumably,
a couple with
little boy in tow
green jacket, blue pants
thumb by his mouth
The woman, black hoodie up
in between sobs, shrieks
the man consoles her. Man
white hoodie, baggie jeans, tan cap.
Little boy walks in circles
playing, pounding his hands
against his thighs
sputtering nonsense, giggling.
the man carries three plastic bags, one contains diapers.

At the bus stop.

Another man stops, “What are you doing?” peppered grey hair
blue jacket.

The bus stop is directly in front of The Gage restaurant. A
steady flow of people
go in and out. suits. A
tall woman, slender with
pixie-cut red hair and even redder lips
--deep lines around her mouth--
complains to the man beside her,
“We had six. How could they only seat five together? That’s ridiculous.”

Bus rolls up and a woman runs down the block, having just crossed the street a block north.
She pauses as it slows to a halt—
she made it.

* * * *

By Jordan Glover

The crisp, clean air of the chilly early April day did little to instill the feeling of spring in those who wondered through Millennium Park.

Some walked briskly, set on accomplishing a predetermined mission, while others meandered through, photographing the parks major features: the bean, the fountains and a large, bright red metal dinosaur.

He took a puff, and began hacking horribly, the sound of phlegm leaving his lungs drowning out the gulls and cascading water in the background.

He began to laugh, a deep, hearty laugh that made his small frame shake beneath a large, black Dickies jacket.

He started talking to himself, babble that could not be understood from 50 feet away. His cigarette went out after a strong gust of wind assaulted the man, he paced back and forth as he relit it.

Then he was silent, and merely standing and shivering in the chilly wind.

* * * *

By Ramycia Cooper

People with Winter/Spring jackets and coats walk to the rhythm of the downtown Chicago beat. An African-American woman, man, and child walk past. The woman cries out, her eyes red and filled with sorrow. The man tries to console her as he gently wipes the tears from her cheeks.

The little boy looks about 2 years old and is smiling and talking, attempting to run away. The smell of cigarettes, perfume, and cologne fills the air. A middle-age white man dressed in a navy blue puffy coat approaches my classmate Cassandra and I.

"What are you guys doing?" he asks.

I explain that we are capturing the moment of people walking down Michigan Avenue on a Tuesday evening.

He then asks whether that includes talking to people. We respond, "We guess so."

He says, “Good luck.”

Cassandra says, “Remember, Big Brother is always watching.”

* * * *

By Cassandra Clegg
A man walks onto the steps from the doors of the Art Institute. He saunters on down and pauses midway, staring straight ahead amongst the tall buildings and the steady traffic flow of Michigan Avenue. He is a middle-aged, dark-skinned man of medium build, wearing a tattered Raiders baseball cap, fading black leather jacket and a pair of blue jeans.

He gazes at the city winding down on this Tuesday night, staring out just as he may have stared into the masterpieces that adorn the walls of the building he just left.

Soon a woman greets the man, interlocks her arm with his and they walk down the stairs in unison.

The pair stands at the crosswalk. The golden sun reflects off the tops of the buildings in the distance. The traffic flows with sporadic honking, frustration clearly present as the impatient try to move up that final two feet.

A small colorful group of young folk pass the pair at the standstill of the crosswalk and pose for an impromptu photo op with one of the statue lions at the base of the stairs. The girl with bleach blond hair and dark red pants snaps the photo of the boy with the sea foam green hoodie. He matches nicely with the fading green lion.

To the side of building sits a sweet city escape—an oasis amongst the rustle. Two people sit Indian style on a wide marble bench in the empty garden. It is an early spring evening with a crisp wintry breeze in the air.

The Asian-looking girl with charcoal black hair and bright pink highlights sits facing a scruffy and shaggy haired boy. They laugh and speak enthusiastically as each one tugs at their sweatshirt sleeves and pull them over their hands.

They remain a lively pair in the empty garden enclosed by leafless bushes and barren trees. They are early visitors to an empty garden on the verge of bloom.