On our last day at the beach the sun came out, and the fog, which for that whole week had draped the shore in a veil of cotton, burned away: we discovered there was an ocean here, after all. It wasn't ... [+]
Mark William Butler lives in New York City, and also writes plays, musicals, and revues, many of which have been produced and selected for festivals. He's even won a few awards. "Waiting for Another Train" is in Short Circuit #10, Short Édition's quarterly review.
There he was, waiting for another train. He was so sick of the subways. Always late. Dirty. Noisy. Flying maniac kids dancing for dollars. Bad musicians. Endless panhandlers. And the so-called announcements? A muddled, mumbling mess. He stood close to the edge of the platform. Not very smart. People got pushed onto the tracks. It was happening a lot lately, but all he could think of was his current go-to word: whatever. It was a good word. It covered everything. It was his birthday, so he was thinking about his life, of course. Such as it was. Things were going nowhere. There was nowhere to go