Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Traffic Lights

Red light.

I press the brake pedal, sighing inwardly as the car slows to a stop. My mind disengages. I stare blankly across the street, wishing I were already there, driving between the two buildings with neon lights glowing in their windows. A flickering draws my eye to a neon sign boldly announcing, "Blinds," in large red letters. I feel my impatience flicker in response. I vaguely wonder how much time will pass before the sign burns out, and the flickering turns to darkness. I know that I don't really care, as long as I am well gone from here by then.

I spend too much time at traffic lights.

My eye wanders to the sign's companion. Its red glow advertises for shutters. I want to know why someone uses neon signs to advertise for shutters. It seems strange to me. I begin thinking about neon gas, trying to remember high school chemistry. I imagine I can recall that neon gas is poisonous, but I can't really remember. It's been too long.

I find it odd how time makes us forget things, more so how we make up things to fill in the gaps.

My eye crosses to the other building, a pizza shop. Neon signs light every pane of the glass storefront. Perhaps the blinds and shutters shop was only trying to avoid being lost in the glow. I briefly consider that if neon gas really is poisonous, and all the signs in the store break, everyone present will probably die.

It occurs to me that I think morbid thoughts when I'm bored.

I watch a blue neon arrow flash on one of the signs. I start to read it, but I don't pay enough attention to understand the words. I dislike neon signs. They are gaudy and intrusive. I don't want to look at it anymore, but the flashing keeps me staring.

I wish the traffic light would turn green.

Cars drive past, between me and the blue arrow. I don’t really notice them. Some part of my mind sees the white and red of the lights as they go by. Irrational irritation flares. I am annoyed to be sitting here, waiting, while they move past. Reason reminds me that everyone must take a turn at waiting. My time will come. I need to have patience.

The blue arrow is still flashing. I keep staring. I try to figure out how one minute can last so long.

I find myself wondering if I live my life as if it is just a series of red lights: brief stops, sometimes seeming to last an eternity, which I cannot enjoy because I am impatiently preoccupied with racing toward the next.

Green light.

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