Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

This Pennsylvanian has been writing poetry since grade school, but when Barb joined an online writing group, she experimented with writing Fiction. She now enjoys the idea of putting words into something she feels someone else may be interested in reading. Barb's best experiences with writing are those months with assignment guidelines to follow; those keep her focused.

In her words, Barb says: "This story basically wrote itself and lent me as the messenger. I guess it also brought out some feelings of torment I've had regarding the attacks on September 11th."

In a New York Minute

by Barbara A. Woss

"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest tossed, to me I lift my lamp beside the golden door." Emma Lazarus, inscribed on the Statue of Liberty

Since 1886 I’ve stood as a sentinel at the gateway to America. Those words, written by Emma in 1883, were placed on a plaque below my feet. Here on Ellis Island, I was devastated by the recent events of the world. People would say that statues made of iron and concrete don’t have feelings, but I can tell you we do...

My world came crashing down in a cloud of dust on September eleventh in more ways than I care to admit. Thousands of my sons and daughters were killed in one of the world’s most senseless acts of terror. Millions of people around the world were affected also. My neighbors on the wooded slopes of Pennsylvania and in the halls of the Pentagon felt my terror, grief, and resolve. Many who passed my outstretched arm are now dead in those cities, along with those in my beloved New York.

Clouds of debris, smoke, and flames hurt my eyes as I tried to ascertain the damage. What I saw made me cry: men, women, and children were escaping from collapsing buildings, their screams filled with fear for their lives.

Time had no meaning for me that day. Seconds, minutes, hours melded into a void, so stunned was I by the attack. I tried to understand why anyone could do this to innocent people. The how was evident as I viewed the smoking lots where many soaring buildings once stood. They were my pride and joy; from their highest floors people viewed the beauty I got to see each day.

For decades, my arm outstretched in a loving embrace to all who entered my harbor. My torch has led the way for so many people, inviting them to savor freedom. They would have the opportunity to speak their minds, to worship freely, to pursue their dreams, to live in peace.

My breast was heavy with sorrow for the widows, widowers, and children who’ve lost one or both parents. I grieved for those who lost friends and for companies who lost employees; but most of all, I wept for the country for which I stand as a symbol. My heart bled for all the families I was unable to protect. I felt in some way that I let them down.

The aftermath of that day’s horror was replaced in the minds of millions by the combined efforts of myriad people across my great land. Volunteers came by busloads, and supplies rolled in from everywhere. My proud cousin, Old Glory, seemed to occupy every suitable space. People who were directly or indirectly affected touched me to tears with the unity shown. This exhibition of patriotism upheld my belief that all humans have kindness somewhere inside of them.

The harbor that surrounds me, always a highway for small boats and ships, is the new patrol beat for gun-toting ships of war. They’re an intimidating and frightening sight. Although it comforts me to know my children are protected by the military, I ache to think that the support is necessary.

My people have been irreparably damaged, but I know that they will rebound stronger than ever. That’s the spirit I’ve tried to instill in each of them. Healing takes time, but time will heal.

This torch I hold high will still light the way and will continue to welcome people to my shores. The harsh reality now is that life can change unexpectedly on a massive scale. It can happen in the blink of an eye or...in a New York minute.