An Unlikely Crew (Part Two), By Nate Miller

Check out part one of Nate Millers story at https://thenumber26.net/2019/03/27/an-unlikely-crew-part-1-by-nate-miller/ The fuselage shuddered and shook as the wind and rain slammed against it, forcing a side-to-side movement that troubled even the most iron-clad of stomachs.The Twenty-Six dipped in and out of the clouds as it navigated the storm. Within, stuck in an aisle seat and … Continue reading An Unlikely Crew (Part Two), By Nate Miller

City Route Twenty-Six, By David Blankenship

The bus pushed air to the curb, cups and napkins from the nearby Burger King swirled in disturbed air. The oversized tires gripped the asphalt and held. The air brakes groaned and motion stopped. Hydraulic arms pushed aside the folding doors and waited. A lone man, small, dressed in a gray and black splattered suit, … Continue reading City Route Twenty-Six, By David Blankenship

The Gift, By Matthew John Palace

It was a stormy night, and heavy rain came along with the rumble, the number 26 bus was late as usual, and after having the day I had I didn’t seem to give a damn. I had just been fired from my job. As the leafless tree above the bus stop offered no cover for the downpour that was ensuing, I thought a little water won’t hurt. I didn’t mind, I needed to be cleansed. The rain offered a cool, clean feel that beaded off my bald head, I felt at peace at that moment, the first time in a while.

The Journey, by Hermione Laake

The Journey: a means of travelling from one place to another: a life: metaphoric; physical; psychological…. Where will it end? “Tickets please.” When was it that you learnt to blame your parents for everything? In your weaker moments? When was it that you learnt that you could wipe out your memory with alcohol, or that … Continue reading The Journey, by Hermione Laake

When Life Gives You Greg, by Patrick Simons

In twenty-six slashes of an angry pen, I enact my bloodthirsty revenge. An indigo insolence five thousand and twenty-six years in the making, a cuneiform callback as old as anger and ink and implements. A brilliant crescendo of rage, all staccato and forte and I’m the conductor, and for twenty-six seconds I feel strong, and there, just there on the seat, the culmination cut in the cream:

Message In The 26th Bottle

Short days ago we were together, we watched sunsets glow, felt the Dawn. We lived and were loved by each other, but now I am saddened that in the past few months I have nearly completely forgotten your face. I wish I had dedicated every minuscule feature better to memory, but as the days past, and my mind was slowly swallowed by madness like a droplet in a pit of slime, I remember less and less of my previous self- my previous life. The slight curvature of your nose, the lift in your brow, the tiny wrinkles on the ends of your lips- the wrinkles from a lifetime of laughter. Such tiny insignificant features which now have taken on such profound and sacred meaning to me, suddenly it has become so vitally essential to remember everything about you. The exact colour tone of your hair, the exact angle of your jaw. Why is it that faces, being so easily recognized, so easily pulled up from our past, are yet so easily forgotten in our minds in their absence.