LeavingA Story by Pat JacobsThis is a story in progress.Leaving The reasons that people leave are as different as daylight
and dark. Sometimes it is easy and
joyous, and other times it is painful and incredibly difficult. There are as many reasons to leave as there are
leaves on a tree. It is funny that the
word leaf is so similar to leave. A leaf
begins to change like humans do, and throughout our seasons of life we have to
leave one situation and replace it with something else. Barbara seemed to think that chewing on a stale potato chip
would keep her from starving. Her
reserve snacks were getting low and it would be another hour or so until the
bus arrived at a place where she had the time to replenish her supply. The chocolate chip cookies were eaten hours
ago and her boxed juices and bottled water were completely gone. She only had a sugared cola and that only
made her thirstier. She chewed for a
little and actually thought that the chip tasted like potato. Such are the delights of the road. Her mind wandered to the dinner table and she
smiled thinking about the first time she made the mashed potatoes with cheddar
cheese. It was the first time she served
it to her family and before the meal was over, the heaping bowl of potatoes was
completely gone. It made the chef
smile. She could feel her face return to
the happiness of that evening with her family.
She turned toward the person in the seat next to her and the
woman was asleep. The book in her hands
was about to drop onto the sticky floor of the bus. Barbara tilted her head slightly as she was
curious about what the title of the book was.
It was a mystery. "Bodies in
the Alley" was the title. It was
another one of those quickly written trash novels that some mother of a brood
of children wrote to pass the time. She
must have won the publishing lottery.
How easy it was for some sections of the general population to write
trash and get published, she thought.
This depressed Barbara. She
turned and looked out towards the North.
They were passing by some Douglas fir trees. She stared without looking. The scenery was blurred by the steam that
settled on the inside of the windows.
She felt hot. Most of the people
were sleeping or were listening to their own music. The batteries on her MP3 player had died
miles ago, and she hadn't the time to plug it up to a wall socket. She missed her music. It was her music. She recorded some of her own music and she
could listen to herself sing. © 2013 Pat JacobsAuthor's Note
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