Warner's Bay

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
Champagne light filters softly onto a lone bench as the witching hour approaches. In the silence of the night it is hard to comprehend what lay beyond the illumination.

Submitted: December 07, 2011

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Submitted: December 07, 2011

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Hazily amber light breaks the darkness, illuminating the lone wooden bench. A soft breeze wafts through the grass, side to side each blade swoons, in the distance the same wind howls deeply in the trees. Dark and moist concrete lay flat, in its long expanse, stretching beyond the brightness of the streetlight into the night’s dark abyss. All is black outside the dimly lit seat, the night reaching into oblivion. Slowly a man walks nearer, holding fast to the serenity of the calm, eerie evening.  It is 11:58 p.m. The day yawns with a faint breeze, letting the day’s events pass with souls who met their demise, lovers who parted ways, some dreams which shattered, while others began. Soon, today will come to a rest as tomorrow rises early. 11:59 p.m. and the man is now seated, his hair caressed by the all too cool breeze. His nose turns cold, a shiver running through his tense body. Newly nocturnal he waits. 12:00 a.m.

The new day has arrived with nothing but a spin on the Earth’s proverbial axis. Tears of yesterday fresh on his mind, he awaits the escape from this city. What bus is to come, he thinks. He hopes for the vehicle to take him from yesterday’s anguish. Slowly he pulls his knitted cap over his ears, silently, he waits.

The stars stare down at him, from a distance they offer a distraction from the pain. If, for only a moment, he can forget yesterday he can be ok. Today, he will soon find out, may be better then days past. He can tell himself, for now, that everything will be fine. The sleeves of his shirt pool in his palms, his arms cross. He wishes not be alone but the coolness is his constant companion for the time being.

Above him the champagne light flickers as a bat dances in and out of its rays. The world stills as he watches the elegant motion of the creatures pattern. In the distance oblivion is broken by two streaming white headlights.

Bound for Warner’s Bay the man sits anxiously checking his mobile every few minutes. Three stops later a woman boards the vehicle, stepping out of the darkness, sunglasses covering her eyes. In her arms she holds tightly to a baby, wrapped in a tattered white and crimson blanket, munition powder on her grasp. The lights flicker from power surging, hydraulics sounding while the driver looks in his rear view mirror every few moments. His eyebrows raise, lifting his hat up and down, his eyes catch on her, and the child.

The man, several rows behind, watches the woman as she rocks her baby. The seat shakes with each bump, each gear shift, waking the resting child. He, momentarily, loses himself watching her as she whispers “Shhhh, Shhhh” to her crying infant through her silent tears. Twenty minutes later, when he is sure no one is looking, he walks the aisle, gripping to each handle overhead, his eyes never leaving the pair. For just a moment too long he hovers above them, causing her attention to be caught. He closes the short distance between them, taking the child in his arms.

Shaking, she exposes her swollen eyes, bruised, leaking saline from tired ducts. Blood, now dried, rests on her lips; her broken lips which quiver ever so softly. The man wipes the hair from her eyes, staring at her, holding her eyes for moments. These moments holding more than friendship. He takes her in his arms, the child bundled between them.

The bus cuts through the black on its exterior. No one stirs, they are alone. The engine whines, climbing hill after hill until finally reaching flat ground the RPM’s drop, leaving silence. Silence, only broken now by the tires to asphalt, the breeze broken by the metal container, and the faint sobs of the woman while the man in the knit cap rocks her gently. Softly he whispers “Shhhh, Shhhh.”


© Copyright 2017 TR Jacks. All rights reserved.

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