FlexWriters Creative Network

  As I walk these torn and tattered tracks I imagine a time of days forgotten. I imagine towns folk walking to church on a cold winter’s day as the train passes them by. I imagine everyone waving to each other with a big smile. If they are strangers, they’ll soon be friends

Off in the distance I saw a town store which is frequently visited by the locals.  I imagined the store with long wooden floorboards and a few shelves up against the wall; on it, is flour, spices and some cast iron utensils.  On the opposite side of the wall; I imagined jars of wonderful colored candies’ nestled high up on the shelf; I can almost smell the sweet scent of licorice, cluttered within.  The owner, a tall man greets customers at the counter.  He has graying thin hair and wired rim glasses.  The towns’ folk know him as Mr. Bitterman. He always wore a white oversized apron and a big smile.

As I start to imagine other wonderful thoughts about this place, the unpleasant sound of a dirt bike passing me; brings me back to my time but as soon as the sound dissipates, The torn and tattered tracks from which I walk beckons me back.  This time it’s Christmas, all the folks are gathered in an old barn.  They are singing Christmas Hymns and exchanging homemade gifts.  I imagined a group of children smiling and circling Mr. Bitterman while he puts the star upon the Christmas Tree.

A jogger passing me by rudely bumped me on my shoulder, snapping me back into the present time.  I yelled sorry to the jogger but the plugs from his IPod drowned out my apologies, after he rounded the corner and vanished into woods I stopped to take a breather.

As I was leaning against a tree regaining my breath, I noticed an old horseshoe rusted on the ground. I then stepped back into the past except, this time my imagination was putting me into a  Blacksmith’s shop; before I went in, I heard the clanging of a heavy iron mallet upon an Anvil, and smelled smoldering hot coals in the forge and  In it was a black medium sized horseshoe held by heavy tongs; the glowing of the red was slowly fading taking on the black wrought iron color.  I then noticed a fenced in mare through a soot covered window; perhaps the shoe is hers,

being deep in thought I tripped over and old rubber tire snapping back into my time, as I got up and brushed the dirt from my pants I noticed and old tunnel up ahead.  I heard cars racing over the tunnel, “perhaps the interstate” I say myself.  I noticed graffiti spewed upon the tunnel walls left from “my time”.  On the ground, under and Old Oak tree was smashed bottles littered about.  I suddenly became very depressed as I looked around, and immediately turned back down The Torn and Tattered Tracks, I would very much rather be, from the time those tracks were from.