I know it’s not the same as it was, but back when it was, I toddled the carriage aisle, swaying sideways, listening to the clickedy-clack in rapid repeat and the whistle announcing a station—and I’d wave. Now it’s silent maglev or hyperloop tracks, windows blur—no time to wave.
Jacqui loves Flash Fiction, Haiku, Haiban, 50 Word Stories, and the island life.
He escorted her, he courted her.
He gave her attention,
His heart, his care, little gifts.
She was his everything.
It was her, not him; she’d built a wall.
She wanted to be a couple, complete,
But she couldn’t give, she couldn’t love.
Was he able to be her almost?
Jacqui romanticized Rebecca’s Frenchman’s Creek so, mistakenly moved to French Creek and dreamed of writing at a desk in the sun room.
Why did I choose to sit by you?
I don’t want conversation or to get to know you.
I will read—in silence.
Like you, I won’t look up—
No bonding glance.
But,
Maybe you called out
To me.
A message to come and
Sit close by.
Nothing more.
Jacqui Townsend is just a wannabe writer. Everyday.