A Sort of Duel by Noble Dust

Not necessarily. In the Netherlands there are a lot of train stops with trains stopping at the same platform but going in opposite directions.

this is not a story, nor even yet an idea for a story. I

I want to know what's written on the paper plate as much as the writer does. :wink:

Not necessarily. In the Netherlands there are a lot of train stops with trains stopping at the same platform but going in opposite directions.

Another thing. I thought the present tense was successful, so I couldn't understand why it switched to past tense in the last sentence.

It's obviously an allegory for America's political mess.

I regret not breaking this into paragraphs, but the reason for it was to highlight the fever-dream pace. I'm not really sure where I would put them. If paragraph breaks are meant to give breathing room so to speak, there's no breathing room here.

I walk down the stairs of the tube and I’m immediately hit with a weird smell, like a charcoal barbecue or something. Totally out of place. I almost wonder if I’m about to have a heart attack; I read somewhere you smell a specific smell before you have one; don’t recall the actual smell though. At my age it seams plausible. Anyway, I’m minding my own business and I sit down on the bench to wait for the train.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice the guy sitting next to me and immediately get a weird vibe. He’s writing on a paper plate with a pencil. Not only that, he’s doing it pretty furiously, and his head keeps twitching from the plate to his right looking past me. He’s concentrating very intensely, stealing these furtive glances over.

I try to play it cool and eventually turn my head in the direction he’s looking. Some homeless guy is slouched against a beam with an ornate notebook on his lap and he’s also writing furiously, but he’s using some ridiculous pen, like something a millionaire executive would have displayed on their desk. And he’s doing the same thing; he keeps jerking his head from the notebook to the guy sitting next to me, making these intimidating glances. Oh and by the way, the man sitting next to me with the paper plate and pencil is dressed in khakis and a polo; I think his shoes were recently shined. And, I kid you not, his hair is dyed blue; I have no idea why. It doesn’t fit his look at all.

So they’re both writing and writing, getting more and more furious by the minute; blue-hair next to me is starting to breathe heavy like he’s shagging but out of shape which makes no sense because he’s very svelte. I’m sort of freaking out at this point, but some weird part of me wants to see what he’s writing so I oh-so-subtly just sort of cock my head to the left a bit and do a little side-eye thing but blue-hair immediately catches me and gives this possessed look, like “what the bloody fuck are you doing?” So I immediately furrow my brow, pretend I’m clueless, and whip out my phone and start randomly flipping through apps I never actually use.

Homeless guy starts grunting. God, why? Now my blood pressure is rising because this is just way too weird. Maybe I’m actually about to have a heart attack. Out of the corner of my eye I see homeless guy doing the look-down, the look-over, the look-down, the look-over. He’s writing faster and faster, absolutely mental. Next to me I hear blue-hair’s pencil break. The heavy breathing suddenly stops. I can feel homeless guy freeze to my right. At this moment two trains come into the station at the same time going opposite directions. Blue-hair throws his paper plate down and legs it into the one in front while homeless guy carefully tucks his immaculate notebook away and gently strolls into the train on the opposite side.

I’m sitting there in shock, forgetting that I was supposed to get on blue-hair’s train. The noise dies down, and the platform is empty now. I search for the plate but realize the wind made by the double trains blew it unto the tracks. I spot it. Now I’m quite literally on my knees, out of breath, squinting at a soiled paper plate, trying to see if I can make out any words written on it. Too far away. For some reason, instead of waiting for the next train I just leave the station and go back home. I called in sick.

I obsessively re-read everything I write

couldn't do it very easily if it weren't broken up into digestible morsels.

There was one thing that threw me off, and it's possible this is just me. It seems like the two scribblers are on the same platform, but then they get on different trains going in opposite directions, in which case they must have been on opposite platforms.

And, I kid you not, his hair is dyed blue; I have no idea why. It doesn’t fit his look at all.

The noise dies down, and the platform is empty now. I search for the plate but realize the wind made by the double trains blew it unto the tracks. I spot it. Now I’m quite literally on my knees, out of breath, squinting at a soiled paper plate, trying to see if I can make out any words written on it. Too far away. For some reason, instead of waiting for the next train I just leave the station and go back home. I called in sick.

I can probably write endless blocks of text with no end in sight pretty easily

Or maybe 3 if you include the author/observer waiting for the commute to a mundane job he hates.

However, then I thought of Haymarket, Edinburgh.

Also, interesting to consider the duality between East and West of Scotland.
Glasgow v Edinburgh. But that's another story...

Then again, colours can be important. I'm thinking of football teams and different religions.
And, I kid you not, his hair is dyed blue; I have no idea why. It doesn’t fit his look at all.
— Baden

And yeah, that's another thing...they're all guys!! Didn't go for opposing genders, then? Too obvious?

Enjoyed the contrast between blue-hair guy with his cheap and disposable writing materials and apparently homeless but careful guy with his expensive tastes.
Blue hair legs it and homeless gently strolls, even after his furious writing of who knows what?

The observing commuter feels sick right from the get-go.
What kind of ailment? Physical, psychological, social anxiety?

Anyway, I think he's a lost soul. Perhaps he'll find his way. Without waiting for trains.
He has a need to read the writing on the plate.
A would-be desperate author?
There's a hunger for words but the daily grind might prevent creative productivity.
Except when there's a competition on! A sort of multi-dual fight to be a winner?
To succeed in touching a heart or mind...

Scribbling furiously while waiting on the train?
Here's to light at the end of the tunnel :pray:

I wonder who could write such a story... :chin:

I have no idea what the blue hair is all about. It just happened. I'm not sure if it helps the "story" or not.

...this little snippet was based on an actual moment I saw on the NYC subway where two men were both writing in notebooks. It was way less intense than this story, but both were men, and I'm a dude (as the narrator), so that's just what it ended up as. I drummed this ditty up at the last minute.

Glad the irony was appreciated.

I'll push back and say he only felt sick in that moment when he realized the absurdity of what he was doing. But it wasn't his fault; he was just an observer of a bizarre incident. It's like he didn't even realize he was kneeling down and trying to squint at a dirty paper plate on the tracks until he was actually doing it...and then he was just filled with embarrassment; reality kicked back in. He called in sick.

I didn't think of the narrator as a lost soul;

I've seen countless weird and gross shit happen on the subway. Ask me later, anyone, if you want stories.

Haha, maybe I'm actually one of the duelers. As always, you kicked up some uncomfortable dirt.

Thanks for the comments, Amity.