Pool Of Water

Weekly Writing Challenge:

ImageFloating. Peaceful. Silence. Click. These are the events. I’m floating here with the beach behind me and a small tropical island in front of me just staring at it as if it’ll do something and save me somehow but it won’t

Dads home away from home and its meant to be a holiday. Yeah its tropical and beautiful but I’m lonely, theres nobody here. He’s off doing some business or something, I don’t divulge. The water feels cold but the sun is so bright and hot. It’s getting brighter now. It rests at the mid point in the sky. Must be at least 1pm.

I’m so still and my breaths grow slower as I ease into the transition. I close my eyes and take a think. What do I miss. What have I achieved. I think of that girl. The girl from the party that night who stood blankly ignoring everyone. It wasn’t a great party but people seemed to be enjoying themselves as the fireworks exploded in the background. I spoke to her and I don’t know, I thought we hit it off. Maybe we didn’t. But I wish we had. People are only after one thing or another and usually its the other.

I think back to my best friend in high school or that kid I called best friend. He left. As soon as something better came along he couldn’t get away faster “please leave via all fire exits in an emergency to your left and right.” Why, what did I do? If you want to be away that fast then why not just parachute from the plain better yet I’ll parachute and forget the chute?

My mother left. She couldn’t deal with her other halves deals. Pay someone here another guy there, what is this? I don’t know what he did but I do now. Too bad I’m the one who has to suffer, wonder what he’ll think. Will he care? Will he rescue me? I didn’t want any of this.

The water gets thicker and its starting to drag me down. In front of me it starts turning a thick red and I re live the click as it pulls back and bang, the release. Red water.

I don’t know how I got here. I was sitting on the beach sipping my cool cola reading a F.Scott Fitzgerald novel when I felt the need to stand and take in the atmosphere. I loved that island in front even when I was a kid. All I wanted to do was travel out there and explore. Like some adventurer. This one time I tried building a raft, nobody would help me. Just some logs tied together with string but it didn’t make it far. I just wanted to get away.

Click. Bang. That last little visual snapshot of the island. At least I got a good view. Then I get shoved into the water for my final rest. So who will miss me? What will people think? Will anyone even notice? I play these thoughts like a vinyl on a loop as it starts back to the beginning again. Drifting. Getting pulled into the water. I’m gone. This is it.

Advertisements

The Number 26

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