Fiction: Adventure on the F Train

​          The summer humidity hadn’t yet reached the depths of the subway tunnels below the city as she sat, notebook in hand, scrawling notes about the early morning prisoners of transit. She hadn’t chosen the local trains today; no, she decided on the F train with its frequent comings and goings for today’s endeavors. 

People watching. 

Train surfing. 

Documenting the fine art of human behaviors while they surfed the inconsistent wave of public transportation that others wanted to forget.

But not her.

She found the ebb and flow of bodies congregated on platforms, milling about on their cellphones, checking watches, and reading books, to eventually thrust forward with purpose once the train pulled to a squealing halt and the doors flung open in a woosh of stale air, oddly relaxing. Fortunately, she had nowhere to go, which added to the stress-lessness she felt as her pen flew across standard lines, fitting words between both, not so much worrying about writing in complete sentences as she was with getting movements accurately written down.

She turned a page, slowly at first, glancing about the just now emptied platform on the melodic clicks and clacks of tin-canned commuters. The garbled sound of the PA system caused her and the recent addition of a couple to tilt their ears, frown, shake their heads, and roll their eyes in complete unison because, well, no one knew the language of the underground. If she learned anything during her people-watching days, it is that true city-goers no longer reacted to the static distorted announcement because there was no point in even trying, so they tuned that out just as they did everything else save for their own needs at the time.

Which was smart on their part since the city was a breeding ground for everything noteworthy and mentionable. 

She scribbled the last note she had when the PA announcer started back up, and a to-go coffee cup floating in her peripheral had her eyebrows raising at the indignation of personal space and head turning to see the kind amber eyes of her favorite person lopsidedly grinning at her.

How Hudson found her, she could hazard a guess, but since it was too early for free thought, she opened her mouth to ask but was waylaid by his phone showing her GPS location, to which she granted him a view of her rolled hazel eyes. 

“They don’t work well when you’re on the train,” He let the explanation dangle as she took the cup so he could round the bench, look down at it with minor disgust before prissily perching on edge, “but I feel the knowledge went out alongside your sanitation know-how where New York City benches were involved.”

She stifled a chuckle. 

“That I knew.” She said against the lip of the coffee cup before taking a sip. She sighed deeply, letting the warm elixir feel her with joy. “Why the surprise? Maybe I wanted to be alone.”

“Maybe I wanted company.” He settled into a slight hunch of his shoulders, leaning his elbows on his knees as he swung a look at me. “Madi, you’ve been sitting here for over an hour. Do you plan to take the train or just watch it pass you by?”

She only held her notebook up for him to quickly glance over her shorthand before he rolled his eyes slowly, which both annoyed and excited her. His appearance always meant an adventure she wouldn’t ever take by herself. 

“Ah, so you’re judging silently, I see. Don’t you ever tire of note-taking?” He murmured, rubbing his hands together, probably wishing to scratch the side of his lip but lacking hand sanitizer to do so safely. The subway made him cringe, but he kept his cool when he forced himself into her calm presence because she loved the subway and all its griminess and grumpy patrons. 

It wasn’t all black-and-white subway tiles and thick yellow “stand back for your safety” lines; it was much more than transit. 

“Not really.” She looked past his handsome if always sullen, bearded face to the twelve-plus waiting for the next train to come through. “Uptown or downtown?”

“Downtown?” He perked up at the options, not noticeably to the untrained eye, but the light to his voice and subtle upward jut of his darker brows had her grinning.

“Dim sum?”

“Does that even have to be said? Of course, dim sum.” He looked at her then with lowered brows and a mischievous shine in his eyes. “As long as we get ice cream somewhere along the way.”

“It’s 8 am and you’re thinking about sweets?” The squeal of quickly approaching metal cued us to stand and move unperturbed to the edge of yellow on the platform. Everyone else followed suit, each in their own little world. 

“Like my father isn’t the king and reigning champion of quadruple-stacked pancakes with everything sweet piled on top.” His hands went to his pockets; hers were busy with a coffee cup, and the other was sliding the notebook into her black backpack. She held it firmly to her side, by intuition, nothing of actual value inside, only tucked away in her person. 

Trust no one; the darkness would whisper in the tunnels. You trusted your gut, which was about it, or the weather channel when bad weather was to be had. No one liked navigating flooded city tunnels once they got off work. 

The whoosh of air brought on by a couple of metric tons of metal came to a clunky screeching halt and allowed them to duck in under the arms of those who rushed out. If you frequented the city or lived there full time, you always remember the rush of bodies, metal, air, and the hurry to one place or the other during time restraints.

The city slept, but only to the sounds of clicks, clacks, and the honking of impatient cabbie horns.

Non-Fiction: The Reaction Behind Fear: Who is the real villain?

​

The sun rises as you sip on your early morning coffee, the news plays in the background as you ready yourself for another day, or you sit contentedly scrolling through social media. You scroll through a mix of friends' updates, pictures of their children, funny or politically cringy memes, and even news articles. You see it every day, some cautionary tale about one thing or another and the urge to share the post so more people are aware of this grave object of a worrisome nature. We see and feel that sense of worry and yearly attempt at mass hysteria in the Cautionary Tales podcast story, The Halloween Prisoner, which Tim Hartford wrote. The story itself produces the genuine question of who the real villain is in this story and similar ones, and most cases, it's not strangers we have to worry about. Tim Hartford mentions how a detailed analysis informs us that more kids are hit by cars on Halloween than are poised by their candy haul. The same is said for the 'Stranger Danger' epidemic when the real perpetrator to children will most likely be a family member or a family friend, someone the child already knows. We only have to look into child sexual assault cases to see where the real problem comes from as the very root of the issue; RAINN.org mentions that family members initiate 25% of all reported abuse, and someone in their social network initiates 60%. When kids are told to avoid strangers and only trust their inner circle, how do you report wrongdoings from the inner circle you're supposed to trust only? How are children supposed to simply 'know better' when the people they trust are purposely moving forward with the intent to harm them for more significant personal gain, like the death of Timothy O'Brian at the hand of his father? Is a stranger still the real foe? 

Or is the foe someone perceiving to have their best interest at heart?

Poem: ​This Side of my Skin

(Poem prompt)

Outward appearances, shielding 

Inwardly, yielding

Not knowing the right moves

To keep going

Push and pull

The threads of the puppet

Must keep up appearances 

While dying inside

Must smile

She says

Don’t let them know your fears

Smile

Don’t let them see your tears

Outward appearances, wielding

The ability to shape shift

To morph

Into the person they want us to be

Must laugh on cue

You know you want to

A must

To gain trust

And live the way

Others do

Inward appearances, bleeding

From the inside out

Depressions claws

Ripping apart my facade 

Crippling my outward defense 

My face falling

Crumpling

Like a wad of paper thrown

Away because the imperfections 

Mare the smooth skin

Underneath 

Malnourished the soul

Living on crumbs

Of basic human decency 

Inward appearances, concealing 

The normalcy once hid behind

Now weighed down

By anxiety

It’s coconspirators as well

Nit picking at flaws

Like scabs on your back

From years of beatings

From lack of conceding 

To fit like a piece

Of a puzzle they cease

To understand

While missing the whole scene

Laid before 

Scattered like the last of your will

To live, your hopes

And dreams

Become pieces of that scene

That no one can glean

Since as a mess you claim

No home to remain 

You break down into pieces

Of a whole

Scene

But will never be

Seen

Non-fiction: Eavesdropping on Life

​ If you stand long enough waiting for the New York City subway, life comes alive around you while your thoughts drown out the ordinary sounds of city life. What comes to life by pure chance, by accident, by being in the perfect place at the right time while you're lost in your own world is magical. You begin to stand in awe at the ebb and flow of humanity blooming in the grimy subway tunnels. 

 You see it all in the matter of a train ride.

You see the rush of bodies, the mother holding her child's hand as they rush toward closing doors, a brave soul sliding their umbrella out in time to gain last-minute access to two weary spirits, and a long grateful sigh of relief. There’s the merriment of music playing from some unknown location in the system of tunnels and the toe taps of fellow passengers getting into the music. The soft chatter of tourists in foreign tongues as they stand around with hands in their pockets decked out in I Love NYC gear. Then there's the tired mother with her three children peddling candy to the hostages of public transit, who busy themselves by looking the other way and dodging the child's sad, full eyes begging for a dollar while the kid's mother has yet another young one strapped to her back. A weariness drags her down, similar to the homeless man lying down against the back wall, covered in today's news. Surrounded by chatty teenagers gripping shopping bags and cellphones, like half of the platform inhabitants aren’t just fighting to live day by day, being sealed tight in the tomb of chance that brought lost souls to this very meeting point. Until they meet again, or not, dancing to the stampede of worn soles slapping against tiles that had seen better days to other platforms, to trains, or to the steps leading to fresh air above as life inevitably moves forward, with or without you. 

Behind the Waxen Romantic

 Who would write a poem about a cactus?

  I would.

  Mostly because I can relate more to a cactus than a rose, even with her thorns. I've built walls around myself and still find myself adding bricks/spines to keep out predators. I wrote the poem because, at the time, I felt defeated, and I needed to write poetry for my college class. This came out over Chick-fil-A and a rather vicious game of ping pong in the college commons. 
  Most poets wax romantic about women in relation to objects of beauty, but I don't see myself as radiant as the moon or as intoxicating as a flower. To me, flowers are weak and I didn't raise myself to be weak, I grew out of spite.
And what is a cactus if not a plant built purely out of fucking spite? Am I right?
Cacti are this hidden beauty; they're a useful plant if you know how to use them. So, I meant every word I said when I compared myself to a cactus.
I know I'm beautiful, if not by industry standards.
I know I'm useful because, in a pinch, everything I am can be used in order to survive.
And lastly, I was never meant to just be 'beautiful', so I'm okay not being picked first, or even last, I rather be left to my own divices.
I'm better to be admired from afar than stuck in one pot, underwatered, and placed under fluorescents.

  Plus, I grew up in the desert. And after accidentally NOT kicking a soccer ball away from the mean plant, my ankle smarted when it connected to spines and spines connected to pliers, which eventually rid me of ouchie boo-boos. I relate 110% to that stubborn-as-hell plant and wish not to be anything else.

  

Response Poem: Rupi Kaur

A daughter 

should never

beg her parents

for common decency,

for love,

or for kind words;

That don't hold

a second

meaner

meaning.

The Airplane Bracelet

​

I’d walk by them at the store, admire them, and run my index finger over the tiny beads and the plane that sat in the center. With others milling about with no thoughts about why I stood in awe, I’d take a few minutes and be in my little world, lovingly admiring its simplicity. Something so little caused such a well of happiness in my soul that I had to pull myself away from them any day I went to this store because, in comfort, they also caused discomfort.

Each time, I’d go back, repeat the routine, and walk away without buying it. Unease filled me in both coming and going. Each day, I walked away. 

Buying the bracelet would cause problems at home, and I was working actively not to cause any more problems or rustle any more feathers. 

It wasn’t the price that would cause these problems but the symbol that the plane would signify in the head of my significant other if I purchased this little trinket of self-perceived hope. 

I tell everyone who comments on its simple beauty that it’s because I love to travel, and I do, so I’m not lying. But I’m also not being truthful.

The plane means so much more to me than a mode of travel, transport, and industry. 

It’s a beacon of hope, of magic, transformation, freedom, an image of growth, of invention, innovation. It also meant a bit more under the surface: safety, understanding, dreams coming true, and the hope for better after being at my worst. It was the mustard seed Christians cling to, yet mine a tiny golden airplane wishing me the peace and calm I craved in my coming journey.

I finally bought it at my lowest and wore it under my Fitbit, so it stayed hidden. After all, I needed something hopeful to remind me I’d be okay even at the risk of causing problems in my marriage because I knew he would hate what he thought it would signify.

It signified a life beyond this emotional pain at the hands of who I thought my future was and that not every day would be like this. So, anytime I felt like giving up, I ran my fingers over the beads, traced the tiny plane, and cried in hopes of gathering enough strength to move forward. 

Now, the silver is coming through the gold where I’ve run my fingers over its polished metal, and I’ve since bought a new one for the day this one finally gives out with how much I’ve put it through. If hearts, minds, and aching souls could, I wish I could replace those just as easily as I could the tiny gold chain with its little gold plane but still hold on to the precious scraps that got me here.

To today.

To yet another day.

Futures Past

​I see futures 

In the eyes of strangers

I see promises

In the shine of rainbow eyes

and in the eyes of my past

I see nothing but sorrow

Because once upon a time

I saw futures there, too

But came to see them no more 

Not One, or Two, I’m All Three

I’m Positive

Don’t give up 

Keep holding on

If you ever leave

I don’t know what I’ll do

Your times not up

It will all be okay

Just look on the bright side

It’s a brand new day 

I’m negative

You’re too broken

To be fixed

Not good enough

To be kept

Or loved

Or held

when you cry

On the floor

You’re too negative 

Too dark

You let things consume

Until suicide is nye

You hold blades to your wrist

But can’t do the deed

Hold pills in your hand

But numb out 

Instead

Too weak to make true

Your wishes of death

Too strong 

To hold on 

day after day

For some semblance

Of hope

Or a single sun ray

To give life

To give meaning

To the sad soul within

I’m morally grey 

I’m neither sunshine

Or clouds

I’m the foggy in between

The world holds this beauty

That’s been left unseen

By eyes grown accustomed 

To light

Or to dark

In the haze 

Of the light

Overcast 

In Perfection 

Light and dark

Day and night

The difference between

Ambiance

And candle light