Writing Prompt #7
Twenty minutes on “a taxi that takes you not where you want to go, but where you need to go.”
I trudged along the street, holding myself to a steady pace that would, eventually, reach the subway station currently ten blocks away. It was dark and late; the restaurants I passed had long since closed their doors, the bars were silent and empty, and even the bodegas had switched off their lights. Moisture hung in the air: not quite rain, but just enough of a haze to blur the outlines of buildings in the distance. It made me wish I’d worn a coat, but the afternoon had been sunny and warm. Of course, the afternoon had been nearly twelve hours ago.
A taxi appeared from the mist, the only moving thing visible other than my own self. It caught sight of me and preemptively pulled up along the sidewalk, assuming that I would want a ride. I began to wave it away - I was too poor, or too cheap, for taxi rides - but abruptly changed my mind. It was the middle of the night and I was cold and tired; just this once, I was going to splurge.
I climbed into the back and gave my address to the driver, who said nothing in response. I couldn’t tell if he’d heard me, so I leaned forward, but there was nothing to see. It was even darker inside the taxi than it had been on the street, and all I could make out of the driver was the silhouette of the back of his head. No hair, no features, no skin color - just a barely discerned shadow among other shadows.
I shivered involuntarily and tried to tell myself it was just from the cold night air. I glanced down to where the driver’s ID should have been, but the card was torn and ripped. The photograph was entirely missing, and only a few letters remained of his name: CTHU. What language is that?, I thought, but kept my mouth shut.
We pulled away from the curb, the engine giving a hiccup that made the whole taxi’s frame rattle. He must have heard me after all, since he seemed to know where he was going. I tentatively settled back against the seat, ignoring the gash in the leather and the empty plastic bag that a previous passenger had abandoned on the floorboards.
I stared out the window, letting the familiar buildings blur together. The sky was the orange-purple color of rainy nights in the city, and the low clouds seemed to add to the sense of an oppressive silence hanging over everything. The taxi thumped heavily over a speedbump, and my head snapped up; I realized that I must have dozed off. I took another look out the window and recognized nothing.
This entry was originally posted at http://brigdh.dreamwidth.org/26675.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
I trudged along the street, holding myself to a steady pace that would, eventually, reach the subway station currently ten blocks away. It was dark and late; the restaurants I passed had long since closed their doors, the bars were silent and empty, and even the bodegas had switched off their lights. Moisture hung in the air: not quite rain, but just enough of a haze to blur the outlines of buildings in the distance. It made me wish I’d worn a coat, but the afternoon had been sunny and warm. Of course, the afternoon had been nearly twelve hours ago.
A taxi appeared from the mist, the only moving thing visible other than my own self. It caught sight of me and preemptively pulled up along the sidewalk, assuming that I would want a ride. I began to wave it away - I was too poor, or too cheap, for taxi rides - but abruptly changed my mind. It was the middle of the night and I was cold and tired; just this once, I was going to splurge.
I climbed into the back and gave my address to the driver, who said nothing in response. I couldn’t tell if he’d heard me, so I leaned forward, but there was nothing to see. It was even darker inside the taxi than it had been on the street, and all I could make out of the driver was the silhouette of the back of his head. No hair, no features, no skin color - just a barely discerned shadow among other shadows.
I shivered involuntarily and tried to tell myself it was just from the cold night air. I glanced down to where the driver’s ID should have been, but the card was torn and ripped. The photograph was entirely missing, and only a few letters remained of his name: CTHU. What language is that?, I thought, but kept my mouth shut.
We pulled away from the curb, the engine giving a hiccup that made the whole taxi’s frame rattle. He must have heard me after all, since he seemed to know where he was going. I tentatively settled back against the seat, ignoring the gash in the leather and the empty plastic bag that a previous passenger had abandoned on the floorboards.
I stared out the window, letting the familiar buildings blur together. The sky was the orange-purple color of rainy nights in the city, and the low clouds seemed to add to the sense of an oppressive silence hanging over everything. The taxi thumped heavily over a speedbump, and my head snapped up; I realized that I must have dozed off. I took another look out the window and recognized nothing.
This entry was originally posted at http://brigdh.dreamwidth.org/26675.html. Please comment there using OpenID.