- Using the photo below as inspiration, write something.
- 250 words shall be your limit and the limit of your words shall be 250.
- Any style. Any Genre.
- Post your story on your own web place then post the link here so we may ooh and aah over it with great appreciation. If you don't have your own web place, post your story here, but please keep to the 250-word limit. And get yourself a web place. Own your work!
- No smashing the stories. We are not here to crush each other. We are here to help each other fly as best we can.
- That includes your own story. We are all learning and getting better. This is part of it.
Let's goooooo!
Tired. That's it. That's what I'm feeling: tired.
It's been a long week, and I would be lying if I said I felt at all positive about the progress I was making in rehearsals. Everyone else seemed to be really connecting with their characters, feeling the choreography in their bodies, and making friends out of their fellow castmates.
And then there's me.
I can barely remember my lines, I look like a rhinoceros on stage, and I'm pretty sure no one even knows my name.
Yes, I know this is because of sleep. Or lack thereof, I guess. Every day, I pile onto the 7 after rehearsal feeling like I could literally pass out right there in the subway car. The rocking that ensues while the train is moving lulls me into a trance of sorts. My eyes get heavy, my limbs are full of lead, and everyone around me fades into a grey blur of anonymity.
"You are now approaching 111th Street and Roosevelt Avenue."
My eyes shoot open, and the telltale shrieks of the subway breaks scream underneath me as we gradually slow. I hope against all hope that he won't be there when we come to a stop. But I know that my hope is futile. He's always there. Always.
I grasp the metal pole in front of me and lift myself out of my seat, my heart thrumming in my ears. I see him. He's waiting for me. The door slides open, and he's staring at me with this sickening grin, the same grin that greets me here every night after rehearsal.
I give up. My head drops, and I focus on the floor as I walk past him. No one else sees him. Or if they do, they don't react to him. But I know deep down that they don't. He's attached to me somehow. Or maybe to my house. And he's the reason I can't sleep.
As always, I failed to honor the 250-word limit, but I'm not going to worry about that. I'm actually interested in fleshing this story out a bit more. Who is/was this man? Is he a ghost-y-poo, or is he a demon? Why has he latched on to this poor subway rider, and why doesn't he let them sleep? Lots of questions...
Did you write anything? I'd love to read it!
Comments
The challenge of existing in a world alongside others, living for a dollar and a smile, and spending your time searching for a recreation of happiness is easily lost when unconscious.
I found myself pondering why I ever drove a car back in my days of college. When I could pay to feed my metal stallion and adore what I had done to make her ‘my baby’. It took me several years to build her but then I found a job that suited a commuted life and now my baby rests in the garage just taking space.
‘Am I no longer of use to you? Explain it to me, please’ is what I imagine it would say, if cars could speak. ‘I’m sorry, life just changes sometimes’ I would reply if I could.
Ah ‘sorry,’ that word that escapes the mind. The word that does not come from the lips of the man that has just taken my wallet from my pocket as my head lazily sways to the movement of the train I am currently in. ‘Sorry’ is not the word that is shared when I wake up and find myself frantically asking anyone on the security line in the train to see if they saw someone take my wallet. ‘Sorry’ is the word that is stuck in my head as I think of my car and how safer it would have been for me and my wallet to travel in isolated security on the highway.