Poetry/Prose: Hanging In the Balance (The Vulnerable Race)

This is how it ends. You. Stuck underground with a hundred or so unsuspecting victims. Only, you’re not in the warm embrace of the earth. You’re in a train, and the conductor hasn’t said a word in the last 20 or so minutes.

Segments of recent news reports play back in your mind: “And in Moscow…rush hour…tens dead and hundreds injured.”

Doesn’t do much to help your current situation, does it?

People are getting restless. The group of three – Indian, you suppose – students chatter on, but the continuous fidgeting of a jean clad leg bemoans their growing boredom.

The lady next to you squats down; obviously fatigued from standing for the last…30 minutes now.
And you. Music still blaring from your ipod, you take out your notepad and jot down observations. Lady next to you is up again, and she’s struck a conversation with the passenger next to her.

If the entire world were locked up in a confined space, we wouldn’t have a choice than to become best friends…or worse enemies. Either way, there’d be more interaction than we allow ourselves in “normal” situations.

A second train heading in the direction of Shady Grove whisks past your motionless carriage.

What’s happening at Dupont?

Anyway, back to playing Sherlock.

Moscow sounded as far away as Pluto when it happened. But standing here, impatiently waiting to get to work with hundreds of strangers, it sounds uncomfortably familiar.

Leather jacket, black heans, purple shirt, matching bag and somewhat outrageous sunglasses. Those could be the identifying elemtns that distinguish you from a mass of other bodies were the worst to happen.

Now, even the previously annoying allergies seem to have waned; a much larger threat looms.
Or not. The train just moved – still, no correspondence from the conductor.

A collective sigh of relief as the train pulls into your final stop: Dupont Circle.

Photo Source: Photo 1

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