The Streets are Alive

(This assignment was to write a page of fiction set in a city or place we had never been. Hopefully it is clear what the setting of this piece is.)

In a city as big as this, it's easy to feel alone, to feel insignificant, forgotten. Walking down the streets of this ever-waking city, I feel lost, even though I know exactly where I am. 53rd Street, just past the Museum of Modern Art. I still haven't ventured inside, despite having lived here just over six months. People who visit for a week find the time, but I have yet to walk its hushed hallways and admire the masterpieces contained within.

This city is sucking the life out of me. The hustle and bustle that is so interesting to visitors is nothing more than a hassle to me. The skyscrapers tower over me like oppressive glass giants, blotting out the sun, shrouding my life in darkness. I navigate the city in the claustrophobic-close subway tunnels, underground and away from the sun. Subterranean life is second nature to this city's inhabitants. Every day I make my way underground and ride the V train along with dozens of strangers, never saying a word, until my stop at 5th Avenue. Every day. It's always the same.

Lost in my thoughts, I blunder into something. Surprised, I snap back into reality to see a woman stooping to pick up her purse and her scattered possessions. She looks up, somewhat frightened, somewhat confused, as I stoop to help her.

“I'm so sorry, my mind must have been somewhere else. Let me help.” I begin.

“Oh please, it's OK, I can handle it, really.”

“You'll have to forgive me, I didn't see you there, although now that I do, I surely regret taking so long to notice you.”

As we both stand and take stock of the situation, the streets come alive with the sound of music from a club nearby. Standing on the sidewalk, looking into her eyes, I begin to think this city might not be so bad after all.

"You"

The sound of silence is the
drip - drip - drip -
of a leaky kitchen sink
in this space devoid of "you".
Every hour passes quiet
not a second ticks aloud,
just the faucet, steady dripping
overflowing crusted pots.
In the silence, shadows conquer
while the stillness fills with tension,
and the void grows ever greater
as the night becomes the day.

The Father, The Son

This was written for my Craft of Fiction class. The idea was to express the feelings of a character by way of descriptions of and interactions with the objects in a room.

The room was cold, despite the sunny summer weather outside. Hospitals always feel like this, Joe thought, there’s just something about them that gives you chills. The small clock radio on the nightstand flashed the incorrect time. Someone must have unplugged it on accident. Doesn’t matter all that much now, I guess, Joe thought solemnly. It had been two hours since he arrived at the hospital, but to him, it felt like much more.

He shifted his gaze around the room, enveloped in the uncomfortable silence that seemed to permeate the room and even his body. The tissue box on the table was empty and it appeared as though someone had crushed it somehow. It shouldn’t have bothered him, he wasn’t the crying type, but there was something comforting about having a box of tissues nearby.

Eventually he got bored with looking around the room and was forced to shift his gaze to the small, fragile body that lay in the bed. He shivered again. The body in the bed was his father’s, but even he could barely see the similarities anymore. His father had always been so strong, so gruff. This shriveled frame couldn’t possibly be the same man. A wet sheen appeared over Joes eyes and again he had to look away.

On the wall was a painting of cows standing around in a field. What nonsense, Joe thought, cows in a field? This is art? He knew his father would have said the same thing. Art was not important to him. It was a luxury that he had never been able to afford, and that he never appreciated.

Joe slumped in the chair by the bed, the worn out cushion and wooden back providing little comfort to his exhausted body. He shifted restlessly. Sleep was obviously not an option. He debated turning on the small TV that hung in the corner. He needed a distraction. He searched the room for the remote. He thought he had seen it on the night stand, between the pitcher of water and the bowl of fruit, but it was nowhere to be found. It figures. I guess it’s better that way. I don’t want to disturb him.

He grabbed an apple from the bowl, examining it for a long time before taking a bite. The skin was firm and full of color. He admired the color of the apple, as well as the still youthful color of his own skin. He used to look like this, he thought, a long time ago. He shook his head to try to gain control of his thoughts. He took a bite of the apple. The taste was unexpectedly sour and not at all what he had wanted. He threw the apple in the small plastic trash can and spit the mouthful of the sour fruit out as well. What more could I expect? Nothing else is going right today, is it?

He lifted his gaze back to the bed and noticed his father looking at him through barely parted eyelids. He smiled, his father smiled back. A moment passed by, the room felt as if it had been filled with water. Joe felt light, but at the same time felt a pressure pushing in on him from all sides. He walked to the bed and took his father’s hand. With that, his father closed his eyes, and the steady rhythmic beat of the heart monitor began to fade.