Mystery
Tunnel Vision
A set of hazel irises dipped in milk admire me from outside the window. They belong to a face with towering cheekbones and full lips, the edges of which curl upwards like cherry stems. Bangs of brown hair dance atop a polished forehead to the rhythm of the speeding train. It is the most beautiful face I have ever seen, my own. We’ve been contemplating each other now for as long as I can remember. And before that? There is no before. A semi-circle of light invades the horizon and the face drips into the ocean.
By Esteban Obando3 years ago in Fiction
Why?
“I’m not quite sure how I survived…” I began to recount my tale for what felt like the thousandth time. After so many re-tellings, you don’t really think about the words before speaking. It just sort of comes out - like a plane on autopilot, or one of those self-driving cars, or the train I just survived.
By D’radia Odinsdottir3 years ago in Fiction
Our Destined Nations
His body is rocking steadily back and forth, a smooth comfortable motion that calms him. One that makes him certain that he is alright. He is yet unborn, his eyes unopened, but he can hear his mother’s voice, muffled and distant, soothingly telling him that he is soon to arrive and oh how excited everyone is to meet him. But no, he is not unborn, but dozing in a crib. His eyes are still unopened, but someone is there, hand on the wood railing of the crib, steadily rocking it back and forth to make sure that he stays comfortably asleep. And there is a voice. It's telling him that the loud crashes and booms he hears are the sounds of cars on the street and the cacophony of thunder. If that’s true, why does it sound like it’s coming from the kitchen? And where is Dad? But no, he isn’t in a crib. He is a child in a car seat. The buckles fastening it in place are only loosely attached, ensuring that every turn of the car shifts him slightly in place. He is half-asleep, tired from having been pulled from his bed in the middle of the night by someone. His mother? Yes, it was her, but she hadn’t explained why or where they were going. Where was Dad? Dad wasn’t coming. If Dad wasn’t coming, then who is driving? Dad always did the driving. Mom is probably driving. He doesn’t open his eyes to look. He is very sleepy and the shifting of the car seat lulls him deeper into his sleep. But no, he isn’t in a car seat. He’s on a school bus, his head against the window vibrating with each bump, his body shifting with each crack and twist in the road. His eyes are closed to tune out the world around him although he can hear the others whispering. Isn’t he the new kid? The one whose dad got sent upstate? Yeah, he’s the one. But no, he isn’t on a school bus. He’s on a plane, and he’s much older, heading off to college on the other side of the country. His eyes are still closed but he can feel the turbulence bouncing him ever so slightly in his cushioned seat. He must remember to call his mom when he lands. But no, he isn’t on a plane. He’s on the subway, eyes closed and resting between stops, as the gentle turns of the car rock him from side to side. He is older again, graduated and employed, but he hasn’t spoken to his mother in some time. He really must remember to call. But no, he isn’t on the subway. He’s on another plane, and he is going home for the first time in many years. To see his mom? Yes, that must be why. His eyes are closed when the turbulence picks up, and he hears the telltale ding of the “fasten seatbelt” sign, and the plane begins to descend. Are they really landing so soon? No, that can’t be right. But no, he isn’t on a plane. How could he have ever thought so? He is on a train. Definitely on a train. And the train is heading… The train is heading…
By Cliff Scott3 years ago in Fiction
The Train
The Passenger was awoken by the rhythmic double-tapping of the train slowly skating along the tracks. In a condition of half-sleep, they attempted to gain their bearings; they were sitting in a booth in an old wooden train carriage, and outside the window almost nothing could be seen except from the light of a crescent moon piercing through the overhanging clouds. The Passenger touched the window - it was extremely cold and quickly fogged up around their hand, leaving an impression upon removing it. It must’ve been near freezing temperatures outside, wondered The Passenger to themselves. They looked around the carriage. There seemed to be nobody else sharing it with them, but they could vaguely see some figures through the fogged up glass between each of the train carriages.
By Dylan Power3 years ago in Fiction
Round
Don’t forget the red door, Hannah! Don’t forget the red door…! Don’t forget… red… don’t… the door… forget…. A shiver rakes through my body, making me quake and feel instantly ill. I don’t feel right… almost like when you’re in a moving car and you’re waking up after falling asleep. Everything feels wrong, even the heaviness of my eyelids as I try to open them. There’s an odd metallic taste in my mouth, and my body feels achy and sore as if I’d run a few miles before laying down suddenly. I let out a tired moan of pain, and the sound surprised me as it echoed.
By Mycheille Norvell3 years ago in Fiction
After the Rumbling
The first thing I felt was the rumbling. It seemed like it was coming from the inside of me, forcing its way out, getting more intense with each passing moment. I had to still be half asleep. I couldn’t remember making it home last night, but I must have. I could tell I was in a bed; I felt my legs tangled in the sheets and when I reached my hand up to brush my hair out of my face I felt the silk of a pillowcase. But there was still the rumbling. I closed my eyes tighter and convinced myself I was somewhere halfway between a dream and the delirium that lingers when you’ve first woken up.
By Danielle L Turner3 years ago in Fiction
