The Passing Time
He didn’t know he could be possessing a restless slumber. Maybe he was just anxious. His usual snoring was instead heavy breathing. His mother had passed, and he would have to make the only train the next morning to arrive at the funeral. The family hadn’t seen him in a while since he was living in a different state. He was hesitant to take the job so far from his mother, but she insisted that he followed what he thought to be his own path. She wanted him to experience the crowded city and see more than the open suburban neighborhood. That was three long years ago, and it had been a whole year since he last said “I love you” in person. The clock would eventually chime to awaken him. He awoke, but not because of his alarm, for it didn’t go off. Dammit, I never set it. It leaves in 20 minutes.
The front door of the apartment burst open as he fled. His tie was flapped in the wind as he sprinted across the sidewalk. The strong winds caused tears to come out of his eyes. Did I lock my door? Sirens were blaring from both the city cop cars and from his own mind. The local shelter dogs were barking at the nearby streetwalkers. The stench of the trash-ridden city wasn’t even affecting his nostrils. He was looking for a nearby taxi – wait – He forgot cash on him, and they don’t take card. He turned to look at his building a few blocks back, and it would take too long to hassle back. Fuck. I have to go the whole way. He encountered a crosswalk, waiting for the signal to cross. I can’t wait. He bolted in front of all the other waiting pedestrians, right into traffic. He didn’t care. He could hear the drivers screaming from beyond their sealed windows. Cars honking, people yelling, time passing.
He passed a homeless woman, but he didn’t even glimpse. A rally was held in front of the local church, shouting from a megaphone, almost louder than his inner thoughts. They usually aren’t out for another hour. Crowded tourists were taking pictures of the old theater across the street. “Excuse me! Pardon!” The local sandwich deli was forming a line as usual. However, he wasn’t fixated on the smell that would always draw him to their lunch special. “Pardon, I’m not cutting the line, I just need to get through.” The street artist was at his usual spot presenting his prized pieces to those that even cared. More sirens, blaring from the next block down, gunshots. He could see the smog coming out of the pollutants from the city tops. To anyone in that city, they wouldn’t be able to smell the spring breeze that comes with the scent of budding roses.
He could hear screaming from the next alley down. “Help me! Please!” He stopped at the entrance to the crevice, and saw a woman cornered by a thug intimidating her. She was pressured to give her handbag, but she then saw a potential hero to get her away from harm. The criminal wasn’t even watching her expressions, his eyes were only looking at the potential treasure awaiting him. “Please help!” After sprinting for minutes, he didn’t know if he could take on a force like that. He saw the terror immediately come back into her eyes when he turned his face back to the sidewalk. He began to slowly conjure up speed and continue his endeavor. He could see the train station one street down.
The doors of the station opened forth. He sprinted to the ticket master with three minutes to spare. “I need to get on the train to Chicago.” Her eyes stared at the sweat that was dripping from his forehead, and she couldn’t even see the puddle of sweat that his socks were collecting in his shoes. She looked him up and down, able to see the bed ridden hair and the messed-up collar. Her next breath was a deep and nervous one. “Sir, the train left an hour ago, did you not set your clock forward?” His breathing was still the same, still catching the breaths he had missed. At that moment, he realized – his own path had a gap. His eyes twitched, and his vision was slowly getting blurrier. His knees buckled, and his hands began to clench together.
“What..?”
Home Base
I’m scrapping dirt in the dugout. I glance both at the ground and my friend Jacob batting at the plate. My “friends” are having conversation about the probability that we win and lose. And of course, I’m part of the conversation. The scoreboard says we are losing by one point, and we have one of our guys on 3rd base. 1 out, and I’m the next batter after Jacob. Bryan comes up to me from the conversation group and talks me down.
You better win this, or else it’s your ass that’s gonna be on that grass in the field.
I just nod, I don’t want to waste words. But the only thing I feel like I’m gonna be wasting are tears coming from my eyes. I can’t do this. This diamond has housed many different games from our team, and its housed many loses I feel like due to my appearance. I didn’t even want to be on this team, my family said I needed to make more friends. Well thanks, I’m sure making the most of the time I’m having on this team.
My coach comes up to me, or rather my dad, and he pulls me aside away from all the other teammates. He looks at me and can tell that I’m scared, nervous. I feel as though I’m going to throw up right then and there.
Charlie, no matter what happens today, I am so so proud of you. Don’t forget that.
I give a weak smile, but regardless of what was shown on my face, I tried my best. I hear the umpire say something, followed by the teammates from the dugout start to get pissed off. Jacob must’ve struck out. My coach hugged me and said that I should get out there. I’m walking up to grab my baseball bat my grandma gave me a few years back, and all I can see are glaring eyes. I keep my cap covering my face to hide my expressions. I walk up to home base, and home currently the last place I want to be.
The Docks At Night
Sauntering to a fast end. My eyes glance up from my solemn feet to a foggy ocean horizon from the pier. My eyes are scanning the empty black void that is surrounding my frontal vision. One moment was full of light surrounding my family, the next being the cramped trunk. My knees wobble as though they never have supported such a weight, causing the creaking of the dock. My ears focus in on the splashing of the waves that crash onto the support beams. My head wants to visualize what’s behind my body, but I already know the figure that stands there, eyeing me down.
“Turn around”
My feet pick up little by little and turn 45 degrees with every step. It’s hard to keep my heavy head parallel with that horizon. My eyes closed, finally fluttering open with heavy weight. My arms, forced to not move, regardless of the need to express my nervousness. My lungs have been exhaling more air per minute. The sight in front of me wants to cause my heart to go limp. A smooth and slick barrel, loading with ammunition, is aiming right at my frontal lobe. My toes scrunch their shoes, with my socks collecting every drop of sweat. My mouth quivers with fear, knowing that this sight may be last. I take notice to the twitch of the hitman’s hand. Is he nervous?
“Don’t make this hard”
His thumb glazes the hammer of the revolver, smearing it with his own sweat and grease. Though his eyes are burning into my skull, they soften with some form of regret. His right foot is tapping the boards of the pier, and his left arm extends above his puffed-out chest. With his gun still in his hand, he uses his wrist to reveal a golden watch. The time on the watch causes his eyes to harden. That glare of remorse is almost reduced. My hand clenches to the closest thing I can, my right pant pocket. My breathing becomes even shakier, as though I have just realized I lost something dear and precious. The tapping of his foot stops. The twitch of his hand stops. His index finger finds its place, resting on the trigger with purpose. I close my eyes and take the dive into the ocean against my back.
BANG…