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

Smoke and unearthly fumes rose from the hole in the ground which hadn't been there moments before. The man stood, mouth agape, eyes wide and unblinking. He took tiny, halting steps closer to the new crater in his backyard. The smell of brimstone assaulted his nose and made his eyes burn and tear.

The August meteor shower, the Perseids, occurred every year, as it has for many centuries. This night he stayed awake to watch it. A fun diversion, an accomplishment to add to his list; he would never climb Mt. Everest or swim across the English Channel, but he could watch the Perseids. A lawn chair, a bottle of fine whiskey, and some Charlie Parker on the headphones kept him company while he awaited the show.

And when it came, it was spectacular. He knew not to expect more than one or two fleeting streaks of light across the sky per minute, but this year saw a heavy rain of space rocks. At its peak, one would appear every few seconds, originating from a spot in the northeastern sky and flashing in a random direction, a thin white line like someone slicing the sky open with a scalpel and, for just a moment, letting through the radiance from outside the universe, before the wound in the heavens healed itself, again showing only its black, star-jeweled skin.

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by Jeremy Warach

The branches of the tree stretched over the closely-cropped grass in the yard. It cast its shadow on the boy who sat leaning against its rough trunk, a book propped on his knees. The Giving Tree. It tells the story of a boy and the tree who loves him so much that it gives all of itself to the boy.

He closed the book gently, shut his eyes, leaned his head back and smiled. A soft breeze brushed his face.

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by Jeremy Warach

Erasmus the lawn gnome scanned his territory, as he always did. It was his duty. It was the proud duty of all lawn gnomes to closely guard the property which had been entrusted to them. And Erasmus took his duty seriously. From the eastern property line to the sycamore tree was the domain which he guarded. He would gladly watch more of the property, but his head was affixed firmly to his shoulders and turned neither to the left nor the right, so he could see no further than these bounds.

But Erasmus was content with his responsibility, and he performed it well. Otherwise he certainly would have been relieved of his position by the property owner and, most likely, moved into the garden shed, along with some other lawn ornaments which had overstayed their welcome or outlasted their usefulness.

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by Jeremy Warach

The air conditioning in the coffee shop was perfect.  I sat at the small table, the plastic chair creaking and bouncing slightly underneath me, while my cup of coffee slowly cooled.  The weather outside was oppressively hot and muggy.  The sweat on my forehead still had not completely dried, even though I had been in the shop almost ten minutes.

The coffee shop was a little off the beaten path, on a side street. Locals knew it, and it had enough of a crowd of regulars to keep it in business. It was a small place and could get pretty cozy when it got busy, but it wasn't too busy just now. I had enough elbow room to be comfortable. Even though I still hadn't cooled off.  

I turned to check the entrance. Anya still had not come in. I looked at my watch. I was on time, as usual, and she was late. As usual. But I was in no hurry. I looked around the shop at the familiar decor. Some of the tables had been rearranged. On a shelf stood a few colorful, eclectic pieces of what the owner must have considered artwork. Abstract ceramic sculptures. Maybe his niece made them for him in her middle school art class. I chuckled at the thought.

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by Jeremy Warach

The cold air spilled out of the open refrigerator and flowed over the young man's toes. It felt good. He stood in his bathrobe, holding the refrigerator door and trying to decide what to take out for breakfast. He nodded, grabbed the milk carton, and shut the refrigerator, then opened the carton and took a whiff, just to make sure it was still good. He turned and put the carton on the counter, then reached in his cabinet for a bowl and the cold cereal.

The day was already hot. His small, one bedroom apartment in the city had no air conditioner, and his old and clunky window fan had broken a few days earlier, so he had no choice but to bear the heat. Standing at his kitchen counter, he looked into his cramped living room. The threadbare couch sat a little bit lopsidedly on the floor, one side higher than the other. Several feet away, a small television rested on a low bookshelf which was stuffed with paperbacks. A card table and folding chair stood by the window. Several papers were scattered on top of the table, and they rustled in the breeze which he could just barely feel coming in through the window.

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