by Jeremy Warach
It is a cold, dark Friday evening in November. The train car is half full of people going home from work. Professionals in their suits or business casuals, others more informal, in sweatshirts and jeans.
The vinyl of the seat crunches underneath me as I shift. Looking out the grimy window, the shadowed landscape zips by. I am sitting in one of the backward-facing seats, and the scene outside races away from me.
No one speaks.
The air conditioning hums and hisses and wheezes and blows. The wheels on the tracks rumble and squeal and the engines and machinery thud and clank and boom and heave.
But no one speaks.
Minutes pass. The door to the restroom snicks open and crunches shut. The overhead luggage racks squeak when their mountings twist this way and that as the car sways from one side to the other. Newspapers rustle, and occasionally there is the electric jangle or digital tune of a cell phone ringing.
And no one speaks. Many minutes have passed since I last heard a voice. I glance around me. People are involved in their reading or their sleeping or their staring out the window. But no one speaks.
Until: a sneeze. It sounds too loud to me, out of place. Then, from somewhere near the sneeze, "Bless you."
The PA system crackles, and the conductor's voice announces my stop.
I am pushed against my seat back as the train decelerates. I select "Save" from the menu on my phone, quickly collect my things, and get up from my seat.
by Jeremy Warach
by Jeremy Warach
by Jeremy Warach
by Jeremy Warach
by Jeremy Warach
by Jeremy Warach
by Jeremy Warach
by Jeremy Warach
The man zipped up his jacket and pulled on its hood. It was a cold night, and he was sleepy, but he told himself every year that he would watch the annual Perseid meteor shower. This was the year he finally stayed up for it.
Since she was kind enough to interview me for her blog, I am happy to link back to Sue London's blog "
His clothes were soaked with a combination of mud, sweat, and blood. The wreckage of the small airplane lay maybe fifty feet away, in a tangle of trees and vegetation it had flattened when it crashed. He had dragged himself away from it to avoid any possible explosions. He didn't know if an explosion was likely, but he wasn't taking any chances. The damp, verdant smell of the tropical rainforest and the stink of burning oil and fiberglass filled his nostrils.
At the time of this story, the firm I worked for was considered an "interactive media shop". These days, it would probably be called a web design shop, but in the late 1990's, the web was still in its infancy, and not all of the work we did was for the web. There were about a dozen of us in a small suite of offices in the Theater District in Manhattan.
The park bench was cold and hard against him. The chill seeped through his woolen coat and the layers of clothes underneath and leeched deep inside him. His body was tense, too tense even to shiver. The wool itched him on the few spots it touched his bare skin: his neck, the spots on his wrists that his gloves were too short to cover.
The rain fell hard and fast, a solid curtain which the car sliced through. Driving at night was difficult enough already, requiring concentration and attention that was not needed in the daylight. The weather made it worse.
The first paragraph, and I love it already: 
The boy pushed harder, and the girl swung even higher. The swingset in the park was old but sturdy. The steel chains from which the leather seat was suspended squeaked and creaked as the the girl reached the highest point of her trajectory and descended back towards her brother. Her feet were tucked under her, and she leaned forward, attempting instinctively to add more kinetic energy to the pendulum-like system.
She opened her eyes and couldn’t remember what day of the week it was. She was lying on her side, her cheek pressed against the pillow. Her mouth was slightly open, and it felt dry and cottony.
The man stepped onto the escalator, going down from the second floor of the shopping mall to the first floor. Almost immediately, he heard the clamor of several children quickly approaching from behind him. He turned around and saw a woman holding a toddler by the hand, while two boys ran towards the escalator. The woman looked frazzled, burnt, and utterly frustrated.
Whatever strongly held political belief you may hold, there is a very high probability that I disagree with you, no matter where on the political continuum your opinions fall. That doesn't make me stupid, evil, or misinformed. 
The space station had the shape of a vast ring, or perhaps a doughnut, or better yet the wheel of a bicycle. It was a narrow torus, connected by four spokes to a central hub. The station rotated slowly about the hub, like a bicycle wheel being pedaled by an unearthly titan, and the centrifugal force created by this rotation provided simulated gravity to those who dwelt inside the ring.
The paperboy wore a jacket that was a little light for the weather, but the work of riding his bike kept him warm. The basket attached to the bike’s handlebars was filled with newspapers folded to most efficiently fill the limited space available. The boy’s breath was visible on this early spring morning. His legs pumped, and he flung papers to the left and to the right. His aim was good, so the papers usually landed on the stoop or close to it.
The couple sat at a table at a gourmet restaurant. The conversation passed easily and comfortably as they finished their shared appetizer and their first glasses of wine. The man was wearing a sport coat over a white shirt with the top two buttons undone. The woman wore a casual blouse and skirt. 
The college student had taken a job as a counselor at a sleepaway camp over summer break. He wasn’t quite sure why he had taken the job, other than the fact that it was the first job to come along when he decided he absolutely hated the job flipping burgers which he had begun two days earlier.
The man climbed the stairs from the subway platform and emerged onto the crowded city sidewalk. It was the morning rush hour; there were a great many pedestrians rushing in both directions, and the weather was oppressively hot. The summer heat out here on the street was not any better than it had been on the subway.
The professor sat behind his desk, grading exams. The stack of exams yet to be graded was still much higher than the stack already completed. He was frustrated by how few of the students really seemed to understand the subject matter. He did his best to make his classes enjoyable and informative, yet the majority of the students were unable or unwilling to put forth the little effort that was all he felt should be necessary to excel in his class.
The toddler sat in the family room, surrounded by toys. The television was on, but it did not have her attention. Dolls, teddy bears, toy furniture all lay abandoned around her, played with and forgotten for the moment. She was struggling to make a tower out of blocks, and it was a daunting task. 
The two men sat facing one another across the concrete chess table in the park. The younger man was wearing a thin sweater, but the slight chill in the autumn air was affecting the older man more. He wore a tweed sport coat, a scarf, and knit gloves with the fingertips cut off.
The rumble of the car’s engine was beginning to grate on him, so he reached for the stereo and tuned in his favorite radio station. He knew the buttons well, so he did not have to take his eyes off the road. This was a good thing, because the sleet was coming down hard and wet, pinging off the windshield and roof of the car, and making the roads treacherous.
For people who enjoy going to outdoor festivals and fairs, Abby will have a booth at the upcoming Bridgehampton Historical Society’s Annual Heritage Fair. She will be selling her items from 
This is an incredibly easy, incredibly tasty, very simple white bread. Impossible to mess this up. Unless, of course, you are like me in some way.
