23a. Photo Prompt 2

Staring.
Just staring.
Nothing to do.
Sitting.
Smoking.
Drinking.
The boredom
of the world.
It's
everywhere.
There's no
escaping
it.
It
just
comes.
To get away
would be a
miracle.
Is
it even
possible though?
If only there
was someone to
talk to.
To
share
emotions
with.
But no,
there is
only
loneliness.
Darkness.
A
place
where
the cold
engulfs the
heart and soul of
the lonely person sitting.
Sitting with the most amount of
boredom.

I stared at the “open” sign as it glowed like adding serenity to the room like a Rembrandt painting. I drooped my head and glared into my coffee, as if it was it's fault for my bad luck. I looked at my watch, just as I had three minutes ago. I took a sip of coffee, letting it stay in my mouth for a while to get the full flavor before I swallowed it and put my gray mug down. I looked out the window at the parking lot, hoping my date would show up. No new cars drove by as I waited in anticipation. Read more »

In a six-person booth, here sits one person, me. With my black coffee -- no sugar, no milk. Cigarette in hand. Wasting time and watching the clock as it tells me that no matter how many times the hands move, the people in this booth will not change. I keep telling myself something will happen.

The single tissue, I had seen her toss it. I couldn't exactly make out what she was doing in that long booth all by herself. There was only that one tissue thrown. It might have even been a napkin. I couldn't tell from my seat on the bar stool across the room. Read more »

I am sitting at the diner waiting; waiting for something to happen. A waitress spilling the drinks over the customers, the person at the bar being asked to leave because he is drunk and it is late. Waiting just waiting.

Open, Twenty Four Hour Diner
By
Maya Redington Read more »

The waiter looked up as the café door swung open, the little bell jangling cheerfully. Once he saw who it was, he looked back down, going back to mopping his counter with the rag he'd used for the past ten years.

End of the day
She sits here
Watching, waiting
for someone, to come near

A long days work
Now its time to relax
She smokes her ciggarets
Waighting to go home, and collaps

She is hungry and tired
Ready to go home
To lay down in her bed
made of polyeter foam

She sits,
pixel legs crossed
on the diner seat,
her eyebrows plucked
into submission;
she maintains the façade
of startled innocence.

But we know that life
has not been kind to this woman.
Smoke peels from the ashy remains
of a cigarette in her pale hands,
and her hair is dyed
an unpleasant and grating
shade of burgundy.
The demons in her eyes are not
beautiful,
but she has the delicate and
fragile attraction of a spider web;
a woman worn thin, but
strong enough to maybe

Sitting
Drinking coffee
Alone at the diner
Alone
Smoking a cigarette
Alert of everything
Sensing the settings all around her
Alone
Waiting
Curiosity surrounds her
Shaded by the curtain
Shadows appear by the light
Alone

Waiting
For what?
I don't know...
The neon sign outside the window of my booth flashes on and off
I don't know if it's supposed to be that way or it's just broken
"What am I waiting for?"
The thought creeps into my mind.
I honestly don't know
For him?
No.
For something to happen?
Maybe...
I tap the cigarette in my hand and swirl the glass of water in front of me
Then I continue to stare off into space
Listening to the electric buzz of the neon lights,

She sits and stares towards the diner’s front door.
People shuffle in and out.
The five o’clock rush is beginning to file in.
The regulars sit down and make eye contact to order,
while rookies come in and visually tear the two page menu apart
before choosing the not so world famous burgers.

The bar in the back is starting to open, clings and clangs from cups
and mugs fill the once quiet venue’s air.
There is a tap on the glass behind her.
She turns and effortlessly shoots a Marilyn Monroe smile

There she sits
Cigarette in hand,
Her eyes elsewhere…

He’s gone,
Now she’s got only shadows to comfort her
He’s not coming by

The glass is half empty,
The letter’s still beside her on the bench
She thinks of where he must be

Sailing, somewhere far from here
With only a scribbled goodbye
The nights will be long, the days will be void

Early morning restlessness, my newest problem that's found its way into my life, another issue my husband refuses to understand, can't understand. Did I always have these problems, when I was younger, when my eyes were bright, my skin untainted, did life always seem so unfortunate, so unsatisfying. Or am I just caught in a barrel of self-pity. Where is that waiteress, damn it, how hard is it to get a ham and cheese sandwich, it's not like I'm asking for fillet mignon, it's a tiny insignifcant sandwich. Am I a ham and and cheese sandwich? No substance, no flavor, no respect. Read more »

She was becoming accustomed to the soft whistle of wind that echoed through the room on those rare occasions when the door opened. It was habit; a light turn of the head, indifferent eyes and the clutch of jacket against skin.

Skin that used to ache with softness, with pale beauty. I used to be so stunning And now her world was the scent of nicotine and charred coffee, of rings on wooden tables from sweating glasses. Of almost-silence.

Her eyes are bloodshot,
from all the tears
and the endless drinks she consumes
to drown away the anxiety.
Her breath smells of smoke,
as do her hands,
which firmly grip the cigarette
she's been smoking for the past hour.
She's had a strenuous time,
her face says it all.
The empty booth she sits in
summons visitors
but all that lies beside her is a shabby old purse.
The dust on the table
is blotched with the trace of her joints and
her lustrous legs peer out of her faded jacket,
gleaming in the light.

I am waiting. My shift has been over for hours. I watch the glass windows. I see many people but not the right one. I don't know who I'm waiting for, but I will when I see them.

The sun goes down and the people walking by turn to shadows. The coffee that smelled warm and fresh in the morning is now burned and smells like rotting wood. It is getting cold. Still no one. The lights go off all over town and I am left in darkness. The moment I have been waiting for arrives. A man in a dark coat enters the diner and my faces lights up. He is the one.

Meeting Mother

By Lindsey Brand
Browns River Middle School, Grade 7

I walked in
Wondering
Could that be her?
Her eyes
Blank and staring
Her legs
Smoothly crossed
A cigarette
Gripped hard
Between her fingers
No sign of a smile
Hiding in her face
She looks lost
Her hair
Is a burning red
Perfectly curled
Into place
Making
Her pale skin
Seem ghostly white
I smile
It’s her, I just know
It’s my mom

Debbie was a normal 35-year old woman. She had bright red hair, and held a red purse-type wallet. She lived in Chicago, and was traveling to Denver. She had no idea she was under suspicion.

"We will be arriving in Kansas City momentarily. Please take your seats for when the train stops. Thank you." The train was stopping in Kansas City, and then going right to Denver.

I dragged in on my cigarette, and blew it out through my pursed lips. How had I gotten myself here? I used to be living in luxury, having butlers catering to my every move, eating the finest food, wearing the most expensive clothing.