In transit: An hour at an airport

For as long as I could remember, I have loved airports. The very first one I could remember was the one in Guam, when I was about six. My favorite thing was the human conveyor belt that made me feel like a superhero when I walked on it. I passed everyone by.

Below is a collection of “peeks” into the minds of three very different women, all at the airport, with three very different things on their minds. Enjoy, and as you’re reading, think about who you’re most similar to. The Guard? The Mother? The Addict? A combination of all three? I think I’m all three!

Crowd in transit station

She, the Guard:

A badge, a uniform, a tight bun. Her pursed lips are a land of apathy under a sky of blue eyes, jaded and impatient. She rolls her eyes quickly as she tells a weary mother to dump the juice box in the waste bin.

“No! Liquids! Past! Security!”, she shouts for the eighteenth time. Seriously, did no one hear the last seventeen??

She looks at the terminal clock, itching with desperation. 9:45… just fifteen more minutes, and I. Am. Done. Then, as soon as I get home, it’s off with my bra. And ‘on’ with Netflix. Ohhh, yes, come to mama, Kit Harington. She smiles secretly for a second, turning away so no one sees it. “Sir, please have your boarding pass and ID out.” Ridiculous.

She, the Mother:

Disheveled, she puts her shoes back on and picks up her baby’s coat from the tray. What a bitch! Give me a break, it’s just a juice box, not a grenade!

Her eyes warily scan the departure board past security – gate C23, gate C23, gate C23, she mentally repeats.

She sniffs. Good God, someone reeks! She glances at her watch. AND it’s only ten in the morning!! Ridiculous, she thinks. Some people have no self-control. She peeks at the dingy, malnourished-looking girl behind her. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was her… Oh damn, she remembers, Cody needs another juice. I have another hour. Does Starbucks have juice, like, actual juice? None of that Kombucha crap? Maybe we’ll go there after the bathroom.

She, the Addict:

She flinches from the faint morning light, and cups her face in her hands, her sweater threatening to engulf her small frame.

Owwwwww. What… was… I thinking? I am never doing that before a flight again. She looks around the empty bar through the gaps in her fingers, streams of other travelers flitting in and out of her field of vision, briskly walking to and from… wherever. She didn’t care. She looks at her vodka in the plastic cup. But then again, taking a good, hard look at her soul, I probably will do it again, she thinks helplessly.

She stares intently at the cup again, willing it to disappear. I hate this. I gotta stop. She jumps into alertness suddenly, remembering. She fumbles with the unlock button on her phone. Jesus, it’s 10:45 already? What’s my pass say? Gate… C21? No… 23. I think. Crap. She gulps down the rest of the vodka, and stands up unsteadily, heady from the drink. I am out of control. It’s not even noon yet. Ridiculous. She wipes a liquid trail dry with the sleeve of her hoodie, and staggered forward, disgusted with herself.


DAY 4 ASSIGNMENT: A Story in a Single Image

Yesterday, you found inspiration in one word and used it as a springboard for a post idea. Images — including photographs and works of art — can also act as starting points for stories, essays, poems, and personal musings. For this exercise, use one of the images below as the creative spark for today’s post. You might use it as the setting for a story or poem, write about how it makes you feel, or describe a memory conjured by it.


Woman in woods: download
Man in church: download
Jumping in pool: download
Crowd in transit station: download


2 thoughts on “In transit: An hour at an airport

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s