Waiting

image(Inspired by P.Z’s picture “Viaggi in Arrivo”)

The train it’s late. It’s always late. But, the kid is there, waiting, as usual.
“What time is it?” he asks a man passing by, and shrugs his shoulders at the answer.
Every day the same. The person he asks what time is it is different, but the rest doesn’t change. It’s always late. But, it’s never the right moment. He is waiting for the right late train to arrive.
“Which one are you waiting for?” the man asks.
It’s a first. Normally, the person doesn’t stop. The kid looks at the man with curiosity, but doesn’t answer back.
“Are you alone?” The man is getting worried.
I want to go back,” the kid finally says, his face tired.
“Back where? To your mother?”
To my wife and my daughter. I took the wrong train long time ago, and it hasn’t come back, yet.”

Waiting

Dangerous Times, Desperate Measures

Yesterday everything was perfect.Sunny Day

Today  I woke up to an outlandish scenario. There are no words to describe what I saw when I opened my eyes. I am still shaking at the vivid memory…

Something warm, and yellow-orangey in color viciously touched my skin. I can barely talk about it; you will forgive me if I skip to a few hours later, when I had to leave the house to drive my kid to school. I couldn’t let him, my precious little boy, take the school bus. What if the driver went crazy? On the road, we witnessed the first signs that the illness had already touched several minds. People were shielding their eyes, and changing lanes without even noticing it. Driving back was even more dangerous. I barely made it home.

Now, my kids and I are barricaded in the basement, safely surrounded by the familiar humid darkness. Two hours ago, I last heard from my husband. He was stuck in his office, watching horrified as hordes of people wandered at street level. He told me about the vacant eyes, and the addled expressions…

My daughter has found an old battered radio. A confused voice is giving suggestions on what to do until this inexplicable phenomenon lasts. I shiver. The voice says that it will continue until Sunday. I cry.

From outside I can hear little kids, lost to the world, enslaved by this madness the voice on the radio called…  the Sun.

Dangerous Times, Desperate Measures