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Travels
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TITLE (EDIT)
Travels
DESCRIPTION
-
[257 words]
AUTHOR
Riot
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I write as often as I can make myself. Hopefully, it will lead me somewhere someday.
[April 2007]
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
JustCallMeSuperman@gmail.com
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (13)
Ashley (Short Stories) - [180 words]
Catching Stars (Short Stories) - [185 words]
Hunger Pains (Short Stories) "She was fat..." [495 words]
Losing The Sun (Short Stories) A story of a suicide and its reprecussions. [1,288 words]
Midnight Ride (Poetry) - [52 words]
Samantha Jane (Short Stories) - [465 words]
The Christmas Present (Short Stories) - [926 words]
The Literary Cold War (Non-Fiction) - [714 words]
The Little Fisherman (Short Stories) - [652 words]
The Old Woman, The Little Girl (Poetry) - [80 words]
The Sob Story (Short Stories) Alchohol does not equate responsibility. [1,116 words]
The Teen Girl Suicide Story (Short Stories) This is satire. Keep that in mind. [575 words]
Zestfully Clean (Poetry) - [47 words]
Travels
Riot

The station is filled with tired, unhappy people. They seem overburdened as they sit quietly here, their thoughts weighing more heavily on them than their luggage. Here is a place that is meant to hold you just long enough for you to remember that you're far, far away from home, placing you like a bookmark between stops to sit and wait with your family, or perhaps merely their memories.

 

I see exhausted mothers holding exhausted children, and I am not sure who's more miserable: the mother struggling to appease the finicky child, or the child, who's too tired young and obstinate to be quited.

 

I see a haggard and dusty old man sitting dazed on an unforgiving metal bench, clutching a half-eaten sandwich disinterestedly in his gnarled hands. The miles he's traveled are almost visible on him, in the folds of his clothes and in his skin. He watches the people walking past with watery, bloodshot eyes and for a moment becomes nothing more than part of the scenery.

 

I see a room nearly bursting with people, yet everyone is completely alone. The cellphones have quited their talk, the owner's long succumbed to the heavy silence of the place. No one speaks. Their only lot in life now is to wait; for a bus, for some sleep, for the hands of the clock to make it all the way around.

 

I sit on my bench with my effects on my lap, a faithful pet following me from station to station. One more hour to go.

 

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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2007 Riot
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
January 2007
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2033
 

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