I'm a dirty liar
I said i was going to stop posting poetry and go back to prose (which, technically, i did; though i didn't write any essays or diatribes). Then, i said i was going to post a story soon and waited over two weeks before posting a brand new (as in i wrote it the night i posted it) poem.
Then i waited two and a half weeks and posted another brand new (with the same meaning previously ascribed) poem.
So now, just over a month after i said i was going to post a story soon, i'm posting a story. This one isn't any of the ones i was thinking about when i said that, in case you are wondering. I don't think i can reasonably convince anyone that a month is "soon", so i'll just admit i'm a dirty liar.
You'll be disheartened to know that this story has poetry embedded in it. I did that because i'm a bad person.
I wasn’t entirely sure what time it was when I entered the train station. Late; I knew that much. I dutifully walked up the stairs and paid my way through the turnstile. At this hour, nobody was here to stop me from jumping it, but I needed the dollar it cost less than I needed to pull a hamstring trying to jump over the thing. So I paid the fee and walked to the main platform. The other platforms closed around 10 p.m. and late came after that, so I really didn’t have any options as to where to go.
The platform itself was empty except for one odd man sitting on a bench and staring at the tracks. He was an older gentleman in a worn, but still fairly nice suit jacket. Longish straight white hair stuck out from beneath a brown fedora. He sat upright with an unnaturally stiff posture that would have gotten him high marks in any of the fine preparatory schools that adorn the city. His feet together...his knees together...his hands resting lightly on his knees, he sat and stared straight ahead of him.
I approached him and asked, “Um, excuse me. I don’t mean to bother you, but is the next train the red line to Aldritch?”
Looking up at me, the man smiled and said,
"The next train is indeed the red line
and to Aldritch it goes, every time."
Smiling back, I said, “Thank you, sir.”
"You are much welcome, young man.
Always glad to lend a hand."
We stood there quietly for several minutes, waiting. The silence, normally so desirable when waiting at a train station with a crowd of men, women, and children whose displeasure with the train system is amplified in proportion to the amount of wait remaining before the train arrives, was quickly becoming unbearable in the presence of a single other person. For his part, he seemed as content to sit perfectly and in complete silence indefinitely.
With a moderate amount of trepidation that I was about to be one of those people whom I normally despised so viscerally, I turned toward the quiet gentleman and attempted to make small talk.
“The night seems uncharacteristically cold for this time of year,” I said, matter-of-factly.
"Indeed the air contains a chill
but fortune keeps the cold winds still."
“I don’t mean to be rude, but are you speaking in couplets?”
"Couplets, yes, but the real trick
is verse that is syllabic"
At this I must confess that I could do no more than stare at him while counting syllables. It was considerably gauche of me to do, and so obviously. Fortunately, the gentleman’s smile never wavered and I could tell from the glint in his eye that he was more amused by my mental perambulation of his speech than offended.
"I also sometimes do quatrains
using ballad metre
for this modern music culture
it is a world beater."
This last he said in low, conspiratorial tones as if he were letting me in on a great secret.
As lost for words as I was, it was still a sad moment when the conversation was disrupted by the arrival of the Red Line train. The doors opened to allow my entrance into the almost completely empty car.
“Well, that’s my train. It’s been nice talking with you. Have a good night.”
He merely smiled and tipped his hat to me. As I walked through the threshold of the train car that would transport me to the neighborhood which surrounded my bed, I stopped and looked back at the strange man sitting on the bench in the train station.
“What a thoroughly strange extra in the story of my life he has been,” I thought. “And what a thoroughly boring extra I was in his.”
Then the doors closed and the train carried me out of the station; and with it, out of this story.
Then i waited two and a half weeks and posted another brand new (with the same meaning previously ascribed) poem.
So now, just over a month after i said i was going to post a story soon, i'm posting a story. This one isn't any of the ones i was thinking about when i said that, in case you are wondering. I don't think i can reasonably convince anyone that a month is "soon", so i'll just admit i'm a dirty liar.
You'll be disheartened to know that this story has poetry embedded in it. I did that because i'm a bad person.
I wasn’t entirely sure what time it was when I entered the train station. Late; I knew that much. I dutifully walked up the stairs and paid my way through the turnstile. At this hour, nobody was here to stop me from jumping it, but I needed the dollar it cost less than I needed to pull a hamstring trying to jump over the thing. So I paid the fee and walked to the main platform. The other platforms closed around 10 p.m. and late came after that, so I really didn’t have any options as to where to go.
The platform itself was empty except for one odd man sitting on a bench and staring at the tracks. He was an older gentleman in a worn, but still fairly nice suit jacket. Longish straight white hair stuck out from beneath a brown fedora. He sat upright with an unnaturally stiff posture that would have gotten him high marks in any of the fine preparatory schools that adorn the city. His feet together...his knees together...his hands resting lightly on his knees, he sat and stared straight ahead of him.
I approached him and asked, “Um, excuse me. I don’t mean to bother you, but is the next train the red line to Aldritch?”
Looking up at me, the man smiled and said,
"The next train is indeed the red line
and to Aldritch it goes, every time."
Smiling back, I said, “Thank you, sir.”
"You are much welcome, young man.
Always glad to lend a hand."
We stood there quietly for several minutes, waiting. The silence, normally so desirable when waiting at a train station with a crowd of men, women, and children whose displeasure with the train system is amplified in proportion to the amount of wait remaining before the train arrives, was quickly becoming unbearable in the presence of a single other person. For his part, he seemed as content to sit perfectly and in complete silence indefinitely.
With a moderate amount of trepidation that I was about to be one of those people whom I normally despised so viscerally, I turned toward the quiet gentleman and attempted to make small talk.
“The night seems uncharacteristically cold for this time of year,” I said, matter-of-factly.
"Indeed the air contains a chill
but fortune keeps the cold winds still."
“I don’t mean to be rude, but are you speaking in couplets?”
"Couplets, yes, but the real trick
is verse that is syllabic"
At this I must confess that I could do no more than stare at him while counting syllables. It was considerably gauche of me to do, and so obviously. Fortunately, the gentleman’s smile never wavered and I could tell from the glint in his eye that he was more amused by my mental perambulation of his speech than offended.
"I also sometimes do quatrains
using ballad metre
for this modern music culture
it is a world beater."
This last he said in low, conspiratorial tones as if he were letting me in on a great secret.
As lost for words as I was, it was still a sad moment when the conversation was disrupted by the arrival of the Red Line train. The doors opened to allow my entrance into the almost completely empty car.
“Well, that’s my train. It’s been nice talking with you. Have a good night.”
He merely smiled and tipped his hat to me. As I walked through the threshold of the train car that would transport me to the neighborhood which surrounded my bed, I stopped and looked back at the strange man sitting on the bench in the train station.
“What a thoroughly strange extra in the story of my life he has been,” I thought. “And what a thoroughly boring extra I was in his.”
Then the doors closed and the train carried me out of the station; and with it, out of this story.