Fred Aiken Writing

The sound of a guitar echoing down the corridor. An ominous draft spelling out the chill of the night.

If only I could tap my heels a few times and let movie magic so its thing.

I can hardly hear my steps going down the unforgivable, unending, unapologetic subway corridor. I’m floating somewhere near one of Jupiter’s moons.

The guitar keeps changing tune. The rhythm of my insecurity. A crowd has gathered.

I try to hurry past. But there’s no escape. The geometric shape of the crowd is too oblong, too awkward to maneuver around. I contemplate whether I should pay the toll of a few undisclosed dollars to move past. But I have nothing.

I always seem to do this. I never have what I need. The screech and miasma of the upcoming train settles into the station. The once synchronized heads of the crowd disperses.

I feel a stupid freedom greedily feasting.