The floor is grey marble speckled with some kind of black stone. I know because I have been staring at it for the past hour waiting for the airline crew to announce that my flight is ready for boarding. They are exactly thirty-three minutes late. I know because when I’m not staring at the organized randomness of the black dots on the floor, I stare at the information display above the boarding gate. I do this a lot. Stare at floors, things, people. For instance, scattered around me in varying stages of wariness are fifteen people (I counted). It is a small flight in the very early hours of the morning (or very late at night, depending on how you look at it) and its destination is nothing to Instagram about. So this is how it is. Fifteen people and me and a plane that won’t board.
I wrote this, believe it or not, in the creatively invigorating environs of an airport. Airport and train stations are strange places. Their strangeness imbues in them a certain kind of magic. And where there is magic, there are stories.
This story was written as part of The Ray Bradbury Project. Essentially, I’m aiming to write one short story a week for a year. It’s going swimmingly at the moment but dark clouds gather on the horizon. Anyway, if you’d like to read the stories from the past weeks, check out the tags on the right.
See you next week.