Mind the Gap (Part 3)


This is the final installment in a series of vignettes inspired by travelers of the London Underground.

Somewhere Else

His round glasses slip down his nose and he pushes them back into place with one finger.  He turns the page in his battered copy of The Three Musketeers and plunges further into a world filled with more interesting characters than himself.

There’s a hole in the sleeve of his brown tweed jacket and his hair is thin on the crown of his head.  He can’t recall the last time he was noticed or regarded as anything more than a man who sits alone.  Athos, Aramis, and Porthos keep him company, but cannot save him.

His silence screams, but goes unheard.

– – –


I try to blend in, but I’m never sure if they know my home is much further than the train goes.  My touristy map is safely hidden in my purse and I page through the London Evening Standard with the same interest as everyone else.  As long as I don’t speak with my foreign accent, maybe they’ll assume I’m part of the club. The woman next to me shifts in her seat.  She glances at my sneakers and notices my hoodie.

My story is anyone’s guess.

c.b. 2011


Mind the Gap (Part 2)


This is the second installment in a series of vignettes inspired by travelers of the London Underground.


Clad in little shorts and chunky running shoes, two blondes bounce onto the train at Holborn. Between giggles they gossip about friends, family, and co-workers.  The biggest worry they have is deciding whether it’s a better deal to rent a flat on a month-to-month basis or with an annual lease. With their stretchy bedazzled tank tops and manicured nails, the money isn’t really a concern.  It just sounds like the right thing to say.

Beside them she sits with downcast eyes.  Her ankles are swollen and her shoes feel too small.  In her lap, she holds onto an oversize bag with a pair of hands that know the pain of a hard day’s work. She remembers being mini-skirt thin with cute sandal-worthy feet.  It’s all so fleeting, so easily taken for granted.  She’s long past due and out of chances, which makes her wonder if tomorrow will have meaning. Such lofty goals for someone caught in a hollow moment.

The doors slide open and youth slips away.

– – –


With his dark skin and long black beard, he looks different from the rest.  Twenty pairs of eyes scan him up and down, but quickly look away.  As he takes a seat, shoulders stiffen and brows knot above noses.  Alert and nervous, they all hope the next stop is his. To them, the turban he wears can only mean one thing.

He says nothing and sits tall.

– – –


At Notting Hill Gate, every seat is filled with tourists loaded with shopping bags and locals trying to get home.  A French couple squeezes through the crowd, she with bright red lips and he with a small dog in his arms.  It’s been a long day of judgment and obedience, but the blue ribbon attached to the dog’s collar makes all the effort worthwhile.

The little terrier doesn’t cry, whimper, or fidget.  He  won today for being the best and all eyes remain on him.  Two American tourists resist the urge to reach out and pet him.  Suburbanites look up briefly from their newspapers and books, while children point and smile.

The dog is oblivious, but the owner beams with pride.  The girl with red lips holds onto the rail, desperate for a seat.  She is hungry, exhausted, and has had enough.

No one sees her.

– – –

Note: Project Art Journal will return next Friday.

c.b. 2011

Mind The Gap (Part 1)


This is the first in a series of vignettes inspired by travelers of the London Underground.    

Descending Below

He seeks a reprieve while seated on a park bench, yet cannot escape the briefcase at his feet.  Business calls wherever he lands. The day is long, but feels much too short.  Bright rays of the sun cannot warm or distract, nor can a crisp breeze awaken or detract.  A tired, yet sharp mind pushes forth and leaves the heart behind. He dons a black suit and polished shoes; perfect attire for a boardroom or a funeral.

Three ravens fly overhead, but their wild caws fall upon deaf ears.  He stays focused on pie charts, spreadsheets, and an endless array of numbers.  Concern sharpens the ridge above his nose, for no matter how long he stares, there is too much red and not enough black.  Fountains spray sparkling drops of water, but he does not think to look.  He slams the portfolio shut and stuffs it into his briefcase.  There’s no relief for bloodshot eyes.

In a rush of movement, he makes his way to Lancaster Gate station and descends far below, where he takes the seat of one who has just departed.  Fluorescent lights rob the color out of his cheeks.

Three stops later he disappears into the void.

– – –


They catch the train just before it departs.  He pushes the stroller and she holds the hand of a little girl wearing pink wellies.  Dad carries a bag filled with a picnic blanket, umbrella, and games.  A family day is the plan regardless of the rain.

The younger child sits still, strapped tightly in her stroller.  She nibbles on a piece of celery in one hand and a slice of apple in the other.  Mom reaches over to fix a few stray hairs and wipes the drool from the young one’s chin.  Older sister can’t sit still, her rambunctious little body hangs from hand rails and bounces from one seat to the next.  Mom laughs for a moment, but soon has had enough.  She asks her little girl to sit still, but has no authority.  The girl in pink wellies giggles and skips around; her mother is wrapped right around her finger.

Dad holds Mom’s hand, but his eyes wander across the aisle towards another.

At Hyde Park they depart, whole for now.

– – –

Calendar Girl

She pages through a pocket calendar hoping to find an extra day.  A fine tip pen adds more things to do on a long list and scribbles new appointments in already full squares.  Heavy make-up darkens a stiff face that has yet to smile today.  Long black hair is wound into a simple bun and not one strand has broken free.  She’s buttoned her trench coat from collar to hem and knotted a belt around her tiny waist. Page after page, she searches over and over again.  There is no blank space or empty memo.

As the train rocks, she closes her eyes.  There are a million more things to do and here she is trapped in a slow-moving tube where all she can do is wait.  And wait.  And wait.  She checks her watch and turns away disgusted.  The sun is surely down and she hasn’t eaten since dawn.  No one waits for her at home, she’s not getting any younger, and nothing seems to change.  She grips the pen in her hand and scribbles in the corner of tomorrow’s agenda.

There are still nine stops to go. What is it all for?

c.b. 2011