By Christopher J. Ananias
Young footsteps walk the parallel lines. The whiskey bottle floats from hand to hand. Amber liquid flashes in the sun. Our worn-out Nikes alternate the railroad ties. Sticky creosote stretches from my shoe, like black gum. I smell tar.
Ricky grins, stepping heel to toe on the tracks, arms hanging like a scarecrow. He veers, losing his balance, and hops down, like he’s done a thousand times. The sun’s so bright. A nonchalant wonder dances in the air.
It seemed for a moment I belonged. The four of us pass the whiskey. Tramping our way to Ricky’s, until he left, forever.
Who hasn’t walked the tracks?
I write, submit, (mostly rejected), sometimes surprised by acceptance. Then I awake to the occasional applause, or to the quiet-quiet silence, even worse to the rise of the heckler, yet nonplussed. I write again. Thanks.
Wonderful description.
Thanks, Mike!
Beautiful story. I need to know what happened to Ricky.
Thanks, Lisa! I’ll have to think about that…
Great imagery – feels like somewhere in the US although I couldn’t say why!
Thanks, Sharon!