The cold tuesday seeped through
both sides of the tunnel embracing
the dark station in its nocturnal aura. The alabaster tiled walls blackened with rot. the
train was not here yet.
there was something here lurking beneath a fog of uncertainty, waiting.
the cold tuesday still shrouded the station with an uneasy fear. I grew sick and watched
as demons stood above me, judging
whether or not I should flee or stay
stuck to my mind. the train still did not come. the floor began to swell and breathe,
scheming to eat me whole. I began to vomit nothingness. the fear was real but there was
nothing to fear, the pain was real but there was nothing to hurt me. In seconds, a
deafening silence filled the station, there was no rot, no demons, no breathing floor. it
had only been an hour. the train had arrived.
Wilson is a seventeen-year-old Afro-Latino writer who currently lives in Andover, Massachusetts, but spent most of his life in Lawrence, Massachusetts where he grew up. He just graduated from Andover High. His favorite things are music (mainly hip-hop and 70s funk/soul music), reading and writing poetry, watching movies and playing video games. To others he is fairly quiet and shy— but very warm and welcoming when you get to know him.