"Pen Rest"

Technically, this picture shows a stylus on top of its rest. Oops.

"And that's it for tonight," I said aloud. I tipped my head backward against the couch and closed my eyes, and laid my open notebook across my lap like a blanket.

"Another story?" I heard a voice say.

I opened my eyes. My pen was spinning between my index and middle finger as if I had gotten bored and begun twirling it myself. "Story time?" it asked.

"I think I need some rest," I said. "I'm imagining talking to my pen, for crying out loud." 

"But you can rest later," the pen protested. "You're already dreaming now." 

It was logic I found difficult to argue down. So I cradled my pen between forefinger and thumb with the gentleness I might have shown a child, and I drew my notebook close to my chest, taking comfort between its sheets.

"A Bunch of Burned-Out Bulbs"

 

As the five-fifteen train leaves the downtown station, the passengers tip their heads back against the seats and close their eyes--or most of them do, anyway; some of them allow their heads to sink to the side and let their gazes flatline out the window. Their books lie shut in their laps, or their newspapers folded; they hold their phones but are too tired now to use them.

The conductor shuts off the overhead lights so that the commuters can rest, and the car grows even dimmer.