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“A Morning Out of Step” is a short narrative centered on Jake, a disciplined sixty-eight-year-old whose rigid morning routine is unexpectedly disrupted by the arrival of a local parade. Through sensory-rich description and reflective narration, the piece explores themes of spontaneity, community, and the interplay between habit and surprise. Within the canon of slice-of-life short fiction, it aligns with works that derive emotional resonance from everyday disruptions.

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A Morning Out of Step

By Harry Arabian

I’m Jake—sixty-eight years old with a morning routine so finely tuned it practically runs itself. Every day, without fail, I wake at 6:30 a.m. No alarm clock, no reminder—my body just knows. A glass of water to rehydrate, a thorough brushing of the teeth, a splash of cool water on the face. Then five to fifteen minutes of stretching, followed by five to ten minutes of meditation, deep breathing, and journaling to focus the mind.

After that, a balanced breakfast. Then forty-five minutes of mixed exercise in my home gym—or, if the skies are overcast, a forty-five-minute walk along the river trail, listening to my favorite podcasts. I have kept this rhythm for so long that missing it was unthinkable.

Until that Saturday, September 21.

I woke to the sound of musket fire outside my house. My first groggy thought: someone’s muffler had backfired. But when I pulled the shade, I saw a parade—people dressed as Indigenous peoples and Revolutionary patriots, banners waving: “Watertown Celebrates 3rd Annual Indigenous Peoples’ Day.”

I glanced at my Google Nest Hub. It was 9:00 a.m. For the first time in ten years, I had overslept. My morning ritual was already in shambles.

Without thinking, I dressed quickly. I skipped water, a face wash, stretching, breakfast, and exercise. I laced up my brand-new walking shoes and stepped outside, falling in step with the parade. Muskets fired again, echoing through the streets. Sometimes life decides you need a different kind of morning workout.

The air was crisp—the kind of early-autumn morning that wakes you faster than coffee. I slipped into the crowd, my walking shoes tapping a rhythm on the pavement.

A young man in a deerskin tunic smiled as he passed, his face painted in earthy reds and whites. “Glad you could join us,” he said, as though I had been expected. I nodded, falling in line behind schoolchildren carrying a long, brightly stitched banner.

The muskets cracked again, their smoke curling upward in thin, ghostly trails. Drums followed—deep, steady, thumping in my chest. My heartbeat synced with them—different from my usual measured pulse, but equally invigorating.

We wound through familiar streets, past the bakery whose warm bread smell tempts me every morning. But today, I was not thinking about breakfast. I was watching the parade weave together two histories—patriots and Indigenous leaders walking side-by-side.

An older woman in a wide-brimmed hat handed me a small paper cup of cider. “For the march,” she said. I thanked her, sipping the cider’s tart sweetness, realizing my usual Saturday had been traded for something unpredictable—and oddly perfect.

By the time we reached the town green, the speeches had begun. I stood among strangers yet felt part of a community I had not known I was missing.

As I looked around, I thought—perhaps skipping the routine occasionally is not a lapse in discipline. Perhaps it is a reminder that life still holds surprises, even for a man who thinks he has seen them all.