who gave me this prompt: college student, crumpled paper, train, laptop. I challenged her back with “with a blue sky like that” – check her link to read her sweet poem.
College student, crumped paper, train, laptop
She had always been a writer. Writer. Not typer.
For time’s sake, she convinced herself that the laptop was the best way to go this time. There were going to be serious re-writes. Major editing. She started with the date, saved the document and then gazed out the window. The ride out of Philadelphia was always a good one. A sunny day wasn’t in her memory – just the calm clouds that always made train trips enjoyable. Forced relaxation. Hours with nowhere to go, no controlling the speed or traffic. Just sitting and writing.
First, maybe, a drink. She was four cars from the food one. The jostling, rolling walk was a long one and she unconsciously avoided every face she passed. If there was a crime on this train and a detective rounded her up for questioning, she would be no good at all. Besides the specifics of the graffiti zooming by and the dilapidated state of the swing sets in bordering yards, she would have no information whatsoever. It was as if she had blinders on.
Cradling two mini bottles of cheap red wine (annoyingly colder than room temperature) and a packet of shortbread biscuits, she headed back to her car. Only one face this time, an accidental eye contactedness with an older man. She noticed his eyebrows, monster-like jutting off his head.
She sat down, put the bottle of wine between her legs and knew her jeans and body warmth would improve the temperature, if not the taste, of the Woodbridge. Merlot or Cab – she didn’t know or care. Laptop opened again, dull dinging noise as it awoke, fingers ready for words.
She grimaced and decided to try the wine. Too cold, but passable. The thin plastic cup jiggled vigorously in the cup holder as she put her head back and watched the state go by. It was fall, and the recent rain had matted the leaves flat beside the track. Their colors were muted by the overall gray the surrounded them.
The laptop again. It seemed cold, the keys felt too responsive as if they were giving the words back to her. An old standby since she enrolled in grad school last year, this machine was failing her with all its machine-ness.
It was time for the spiral to-do notebook. She started writing, even though she didn’t really like her pen options. After half a page, she tore it out and folded the paper, then let her hand crunch over it, feeling the paper edges. It was a sharp edge that got her writing again. New page in the spiral.
“Dear Mom,”
