Lost to the Night
The Expressions of Unfortunate Events
The deserted street, the hollow night. Emma Lazurus’s poem greeted him as he lifted his sight. Destitute, those words rang true no more. His appearance garbed and unkempt. Up ahead, the birch trees dropped their leaves. A car passed by but just passed by, quick to leave as the turn signal advised. Now that he thought about it, he might not be safe here this time of hour.
The traffic lights rigidly rocked from the steel posts, and the lamps overhead flickered on and off; it was a careless night. He walked to a bench. Where he sat, an open bag of Cheetos lay by his left leg. And like the leaves, it left as the breeze lifted and wrestled it until it was out of view. He took a cigarette out from his grey jacket, fumbling until it slipped out of his fingers and rolled past the sidewalk into the sewers. He leapt from his seat to save that fucking thing. He knew that was the only object he’d put his mouth on this late night. He smiled for a second before letting out a pitiful chuckle. Looking around, embarrassed, he didn’t want someone labelling him a madman, especially after the day he had. He suffered through that excruciating meeting after he found out. God, he found out. He really wished he hadn’t.
He was quick to snatch another cigarette, squeezing the damned cylinder like it owed him money. He grabbed a lighter from his left pocket, flicking the gears, lighting a fire, arching his shoulders — protecting the flame; shaking, he lifted both of his hands to his mouth and took a long drag from the cackling paper covering tobacco. A sigh of relief and a cloud of smoke billowed. He was glad another unfortunate turn of events didn’t appear under the guise of an empty, broken lighter. From a shitty mood to happiness, then irate, and now relieved, in the span of a minute - he was really going through it. He’d gone mad. But to hell if someone watched his emotional turmoil. I’m human, he thought, I’m entitled to act how I want on a day like this.
He sighed and laughed again, what a day. He reached into his jeans and from his pocket pulled out a rectangular device. It lit his grey jacket and face as he stared into it. He flicked his finger in an upward motion onto the screen. His expression changed. He sat up and put the device up to his ear.
The sounds from his mouth came out in whispers. He paced back and forth. He squawked and screamed and lifted his limbs. His face changed color like a chameleon. “Don't worry I’m good… No, no, no, have your fun but, don't come running back!” His eyes darted from one direction to another, he was looking for something. Yet, he paid attention to nothing.
There was a moment of silence, the steam coming off him slowly dragged up in the sky and disappeared in the freezing night air. Yes, he hadn’t taken a shower, he could smell himself even in this cold. He threw the contraption. It landed on the side of the street, the surface shattered to pieces and so was he. Lighting another a cigarette he was bound west, hands in his pockets, eyes glued to his shoes. Birds on telephone poles, convinced the commotion was over, flew in the opposite direction to a rooftop garden.
Something about this story doesn’t sit right. So, I chose to publish it knowing I would be incessant in my need to fix and alter it a hundred times over, still unsatisfied.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Bryan Baltazar and writers in Humans and other communities.
Sleepless
The solitude of night solemnly grabbed me by the hand, and yanked me from my slumber. I half expected sunlight to pierce through the window, but a bleak blue filled my room, instead. Tempting as it was to fall back asleep in the arms of darkness, those exhausting thoughts in the early dawn - the pestering song of silence - held a wanderer in a place of wanting. Wanting sleep. Wanting dreams. Wanting rest. Wanting.
By Bryan Baltazar2 years ago in Poets
Cabin Fever Because of Snow, Sleet, and Freezing Rain That Turned to Icy Roads
What Is Cabin Fever? The short answer is that cabin fever is restlessness from being in a confined area. Cabin fever is the distressing irritability or restlessness experienced when a person or group is stuck at an isolated location or in confined quarters for an extended time. Research shows that prolonged cold, gray skies, and being stuck indoors can trigger mood shifts similar to “winter blues.”
By Margaret Minnicks4 days ago in Humans
The Day ‘Stop’ Meant Nothing”
A quiet sign, a loud tragedy, and the cost of a world that won’t pause The stop sign had been there longer than anyone could remember. Its red paint had faded into a tired maroon, edges nicked and scarred by time, winters, and neglect. It stood at the corner like a patient elder, asking—politely, repeatedly—for the world to slow down. Most days, people barely noticed it. Cars rolled through the intersection without fully stopping, drivers glancing left and right just long enough to convince themselves it was safe to keep moving. Cyclists treated it like a suggestion. Walkers passed beneath it, trusting that someone else would obey. The sign did not shout. It did not move. It simply waited, believing in the rules it was made to represent. On the day everything changed, the sky was overcast—one of those gray mornings that feels unfinished, as if the sun forgot to show up. The air carried a cold stillness, the kind that makes sounds sharper and silences heavier. Snow threatened but didn’t fall. Life continued in its ordinary, careless rhythm. And then, somewhere beyond that quiet corner, violence arrived without asking for permission. There are moments in life when you realize how fragile the idea of “normal” really is. How quickly it dissolves. How easily it abandons us. That day, the word stop lost its power—not just on that sign, but everywhere. Gun violence does not announce itself. It doesn’t send warnings ahead of time. It doesn’t respect neighborhoods, routines, or innocence. It crashes into lives like an unwanted storm, leaving behind questions that never find answers. Afterward, people gathered near that intersection. Some stood silently. Others cried. A few argued—about causes, about laws, about what should have been done. The stop sign watched it all, unchanged, unmoved, still doing its job. Still asking the same thing it always had. Stop. But stopping is not something we are good at anymore. We rush through days like they owe us something. We scroll past suffering. We debate tragedies instead of mourning them. We turn real pain into statistics because numbers feel safer than names. Slower than grief is reflection, and reflection requires us to pause—something our world resists with impressive determination. The stop sign is a simple object, but it carries a complex promise: that if we all agree to pause, we can protect one another. That shared responsibility can reduce harm. That rules exist not to control us, but to keep us alive. Gun violence exposes how often we break that promise. After every incident, we hear the same phrases. Thoughts and prayers. This is complicated. Now is not the time. Each sentence is a way of rolling through the intersection without fully stopping. A way of acknowledging the sign without obeying it. Somewhere beneath the surface of all this noise, there are people trying to survive quietly. They don’t always protest. They don’t always speak. They float through the aftermath—traumatized, exhausted, invisible. Like something drifting beneath frozen water, their pain is easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it. Silent survival doesn’t make headlines. The survivors carry it with them to grocery stores, classrooms, and bedrooms where sleep comes reluctantly. They flinch at loud sounds. They measure exits when entering rooms. They learn to live with a background fear that never fully fades. And still, the world asks them to move on. The stop sign remains, doing what it has always done. It does not blame. It does not choose sides. It simply insists that some things require our full attention. That speed is not always strength. That hesitation can be an act of care. But caring takes effort. It requires us to sit with discomfort instead of rushing to conclusions. To listen without planning our rebuttals. To acknowledge that prevention is harder than reaction, and patience harder than outrage. In a culture addicted to momentum, stopping feels unnatural. We mistake motion for progress. We confuse volume with action. We demand quick fixes for slow-burning problems. Gun violence does not thrive in silence alone. It thrives in avoidance. Avoiding hard conversations. Avoiding responsibility. Avoiding the pause that might force us to change. The day “stop” meant nothing was not a single day. It was a culmination. A buildup of moments when we chose convenience over caution, speed over safety, certainty over compassion. That’s what makes the sign so haunting. It reminds us that the tools for prevention are often already in place—but they only work if we agree to honor them. You can repaint a stop sign. You can replace it. You can install brighter lights, louder warnings. But none of it matters if we don’t believe in the message behind it. Stop is not weakness. Stop is not surrender. Stop is not delay for the sake of delay. Stop is a decision. A decision to value life over haste. A decision to notice the people we usually overlook. A decision to treat prevention as seriously as punishment. Long after the crowd dispersed, the intersection returned to its routine. Cars passed. People walked. The sign stood quietly, holding its ground. It did not know about politics or policy. It did not understand arguments. It only understood its purpose. To protect. Maybe that’s what we’ve forgotten—not just how to stop, but why stopping matters. If we paused more often, we might see what’s drifting beneath the surface of our communities: grief waiting to be acknowledged, fear waiting to be eased, resilience waiting to be supported. If we stopped, even briefly, we might hear the quiet voices drowned out by louder ones. We might notice the warning signs before they become memorials. The stop sign will keep standing there, faithful and ignored, until we decide its message is worth following. The question isn’t whether the sign is clear enough. The question is whether we are willing to listen.
By Inayat khan3 days ago in Humans
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.