The number 26.
It’s the 26th January, a Sunday. Nothing happens on a Sunday besides, well, actually nothing happens on a Sunday. It’s a cold winter morning. The streets are layered with a thick frosting of ice and snow like a white fluffy cloud which rests quietly, peacefully almost until we, the people, come trudging through. Our feet pull through the tranquility quilt covering the pavement roughing it up.
The 26th day. It’s 2014 and I stop to think, we’re 26 days into this year already. Where does the time go? It flashes past like that moment you wait for a train and it zips past as the gust of air pushes you back ever so slightly. Those 26 days, gone, fluttered away. I’ll never get them back.
It’s 4.26pm as I’m sitting waiting for my train, it’s late of course. When has a train ever turned up on time? Always early or late. Here it is, 4.29pm as it pulls into the station with a squeal.I clamber on board as the snow weighs me down, no your not leaving, the snow clearly thinks. On the train as the doors close, myself and the snow part ways with a cold goodbye.
It’s not even busy. I look at the clock on the train, 4.26pm. Of course it is. When has a clock on the train ever been right either. Is any time in the world right? What if all the clocks where wrong and secretly it’s just a few minutes ahead or a few minutes behind? The remains of the particles of snow rest on my boots. Quickly melting into a puddle beneath me, screaming like the wicked witch of the west, I’m melting, they shout, I’m melting.
I gaze around the train, everyone’s sitting, notebooks, newspapers, books all in hand. One man next to me reading The Great Gatsby, page 26 in fact. It’s an old edition with the pages torn and curled in the corners. This books been through a history itself. I catch the faint words at the bottom of the page “I was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the last ones left on the train.” Ah I see. It’s the story of how Myrtle met Tom.
I pull my notebook out and open to the last page. Pen in hand I’m ready to write a story about the 26th January. My thoughts gather on the day as I scribble out 26th January at the top of the page.
My first line: The number 26. Then suddenly the train halts and the lights go out. Trains. Absolutely useless.
Daily Prompt – Your Days Are Numbered