I wonder how many friendships cast off while in the confines of public transport. You certainly get cozy with people.

A woman’s lace-lined blouse rhythmically brushed against his shoulder in time to the passing rail ties. She seemed nice. Probably someone who’s second-greatest joy in life was cooking a good meal for others, second only to her darling husband, of course, “did you see these earrings he bought me?”

That man there. Old enough to justify asking for a seat yet too young for his pride to let him. His left knee would hurt either way. May as well keep his dignity unscathed.

The next song on his playlist rolled, drowning out the noise of no one speaking to one another.

He shared a brief moment with another passenger next to him. A glancing of eyes, the merest shade of a grin, both absolutely thinking the same thing.

We’re alone in a sardine can.

“Do you want me to leave the drinks menu?”

“Oh yes. I’ve got another one coming.” I almost clarified myself, the statement easily meaning another person or another drink but seeing as both were likely to happen, I left the ambiguity.

I watched for her. Knew her face, though I checked the picture again, mentally changing her hair from red to blonde like she had warned me, just to be sure. A flutter and my eyes were distracted by blonde hair coming up the steps. This was not her but our eyes locked anyway, both of us wondering if we were who the other was looking for. Perhaps we had changed since all our pictures were taken. But no. A friendly hello shifted her attention.

My gin and tonic was garnished with rosemary. That was new, good. A little liquid courage Mr. Dent?

The location was familiar. One of my favourite spots in the city, though unknown to her. Selfishly, I was glad for the comfort of familiarity. Had I been wearing boots, I’d be quaking.

It was a night for it though. The scattered tables dotted with other couplings, some new, some old, romantic, platonic. The common denominator being that everyone enjoyed the company they were in. This was a place where you brought those dear to you, or where dearness was born.

The knuckles on his right hand were getting bony. The job would do that to you, age you faster. He never intended to be a taxi driver. He was trained to be a chef. But sometimes life throws things at you you can’t control. Complaining about it didn’t change anything. That’s what his father taught him
This potential client through. That he could control. Eight kids. Didn’t this guy know about protection? Destination. Ask the question. City? Hmm. That could be a $100 fare. Can’t pass that up. Alright. Pack in the clan. Get moving.
A snot covered hand taps the back of his head.
$100.

The snow had been falling pretty steadily for the last several hours. A cliche blanket of the stuff had covered near everything. No. It did cover everything. Absolutely everything. White as the mayor that morning.
I scratch my nose in irritation, sniff nice and hard, spit out what came down, and grumble silently. Which I say only because it has a nice image to it. Grumbling silently. Obviously one cannot grumble and stay completely silent. I’m still being poetic. Anyway the man in front-

Huh? What do you mean you want a true story? This is…
Fine.
Ok then.

It was still snowing. 90% of what I could see was affected by snow in some way. I was a little chilly and was just about to cut off a finger to win a bet…

The soft crunch of gravel under his boot flashes memories of his childhood with every minuscule impact of stone.

Twenty paces, twenty-three now, in front of him she walks quickly away. The burning knowledge of his stare, the flames of his very existence licks at the back of her neck.

Keeping her dignity the best she can, she manages to reach the car without looking back. Her tear matches his though neither could know. The engine starts. The gravel protests. And she is gone.

He can’t complain though.
He chose this.

Tinny pop music fanfares the gaggle of girls already drunk from their pre’s clutched together on the back of the train.

And when their stop comes they sashay off, dresses hardly containing their stir-crazy breasts.

They are fast replaced by tow-headed boys in collared shirts, their jawlines chiselled by their fathers’ blood.

They make plans to hunt in sport for the fleeting beasts in their dens. Beasts with windows to the skin above their hearts too calloused to still call tender.

And they drink tomorrow’s joy and they scream to feel alive.

The bar was a small one. Mulled wine and homemade popcorn accented the musty interior. All in all, it wasn’t that bad of a bar. Not great. But not bad either. It was a local tavern above anything else. One could see it in the way the barkeepers’ eyes shone at every other guest. The Regulars returning to their watering hole. They knew each other by name and preferred drink. Young men would bring perspective lovers here as a first date. A comfortable place, such as it was, would bring them back for their weekly night out as spouses in the years to come. Assuming it was still here. You never knew with small pubs. They would either stand vigilant through a century or collapse before the end of the decade. It was easy to understand the extreme.

Regulars were pillars. Businessmen would hold their moonlit scrums, their jackets looking a bit more dishevelled than they did that morning. Musicians would find their name under the staircase. Those young men would grow to bring their wives then ultimately their sons who would bring their perspective lovers. And so the generations would pass to the scent of mulled wine and homemade popcorn laid out on the countertops.

High-rise rooftops were invented by God. This was not a question. Up here sounds and city noise are distant. She sips her coffee in deep reverie. A horn honks far below the crevasse walls formed by the uncountable tenements.
These things have been around long enough to make their way to reminiscent songs hummed by aged workmen. Isn’t that funny?
A well worn book lays on the arm of her chair, forgotten for the moment. Her thoughts are elsewhere. Across the sea Thomas was working. Life continued without her.
This is an unpleasant thought but there is no use getting worked up about it.
She chose to drive away, to fly, to leave that noisy driveway behind.

“What then, did you think I would just walk away? You were abusive and self-centered. I put up with you for years, years! before I just couldn’t take it any more. But no. I’m not a coward. I’m not a wimp. I don’t take a hit without swinging back. You should have seen that. You saw how I handled that, that, what was his name… Charles… Charlie! that Charlie guy.

And then you. You had to go and run off your fat mouth, talking to me as if I was some nothing, as if the last ten years of my life meant nothing to the company. As if you were some perfect, ideal man yourself. And you had to bring my wife into it. What the hell is wrong with you?”
He sighed.

“It doesn’t really matter anyway. I mean, it won’t in a few seconds. Because you’ll be dead and I’ll be happier knowing there’s less scum fouling up our earth. So goodbye Jim, maybe you’ll be a manager in hell, too.”

He cocked the gun, aimed, and fired.

PRUMF

The old revolver lurched back in his hand. The carved pumpkin exploded into small, sticky pieces. Birds in the surrounding trees took wing in a panic. A few seeds landed on his face.

It was a foggy morning in Prim. Peter had a hard time keeping his eyes open. It was time for school, he knew it. It was time to get up and learn and follow directions and memorize useless lessons. He didn’t see the point. Neither did any of his classmates now that he thought about it. But the teachers and his parents and the city counselor all said, as-iron, that it was a good thing. They said that they all went to school and hated it but lived to be thankful for it in the end. So Peter did what he was told. He did his lessons. He learned his learnings. He followed his directions. He had a lot of growing to do, yet. He was almost a man. Almost. A few more turns and he would be ready. It was this thought that kept him going. Morning after fickle morning he would diligently rise, learn, and grow. For he was almost a man and, after all, he didn’t want to end up like the people of Sola.

—

Silas saw that it was a crisp morning in Sola. Silas leapt out of bed, ready to tackle whatever the day threw at him. He was a man of sport, Silas. If it involved moving from one end of anything to another for any reason at all, Silas was good at it. His parents loved him, for Silas was bright, witty, strong, and kind. He was the strong arm of his community and his school, named Silas Centre after him, was filled with eager young minds that looked at him with awe and inspiration. The Silas Centre was of a different sort of education. They taught practical learnings, and Silas was the coach, head over all instruction. For if it involved running across anything for any reason, Silas was good at it. He could never imagine living a quiet life, gentle and soft like that of the people of Autu, no, not Silas.

—

The morning rose tardy yet kind in Autu. Anna deftly lifted from her bed, landing gently upon the floor, not making a sound. She had nowhere to be for the next two hours for she had risen with the dawn, and work didn’t start until much afterward. She decided upon a cup of tea. There was a bold chill in the air that clung to the shadows, forcefully vacated from the sun’s light. Tea would taste nice. She picked a nice wildflower blend and began to boil water. After several minutes on the fire, the pot began to steam. Anna lifted the pot, gingerly poured the scalding liquid into a china cup, set the pot upon a well burned in circle on her wooden counter, and began to steep the tealeaves. Yes, Anna thought, tea would taste nice. Her mind briefly wondered how one would taste to the people of Hiver.

—

Morning barely made it up in Hiver. Harry didn’t seem much inclined to respond to the weak sun, nor, it seemed, did it seem inclined to encourage him. So the two lazily stared at each other for a while before rumbles of hunger spoke from Harry’s stomach. He obliged this call. He was much too old to care about the cares of the world, but he would never outgrow, he decided, the cares of his stomach. He decided on a breakfast of toast with butter and raspberry jam and wildflower tea. He warmed his bread while the pot slowly heated. It took things quite a while to heat these days it seemed. After an irrelevant amount of time, Harry lifted the pot from its place over the fire and poured a cup. The wildflower tea tasted wonderful on mornings like this. The smell of flowers reminded him of the time he visited the people of Prim.