An attempt at a short story. Enjoy.
The room of the car was small and cramped. Huddled together with packed things, there was no room for stray legs and arms to lay about. The stale aroma of cigarette butts seeped from every crevice of the box like a transparent serpent, coiling around my throat, and up into my nostrils. I was drifting. Sitting near the window, the glass pulsed against my face with every drop that fell. Every drop a reminder of what I’ve left behind. I was running. But I was not alone. A man coughed in the corner. With eyes shut, he showed no notice of me. Maybe I was alone. He had an air of ignorant innocence about him. A man unaffected by the troubles of the world around him. A man undecided with a destiny unknown. The empty whiskey bottle in his lap told a story. He seemed the type of man who drank and slept his days away. I haven’t slept in days, or had anything to drink for that matter. The serpent began to tighten his grip. Reaching the back of my skull I decided a change of scenery was in order.
“I need some air.”
Outside the car, in the long and narrow thoroughfare of the train, people moved about in their clumsy and ridiculous manner. Spilling drinks and smoking things, talking about the weather and work. Party symbols and advertisements plagued the walls. Sucking the life from the train as they have done to so many people over the years. Turning my back I made my way to the end of the train and opened the hatch-like door. The rain had stopped and from my back pocket I retrieved a crumpled box. One of my few remaining possessions. From the box I pulled my cylindrical comfort. And with the click of a flint I could feel the death creep within me. In and out of every pore, battling for passage against the cold night air. I heard not the roar of the train against the tracks but the crackling sound of the cigarette with each preceding breath. The smoke remained in the air, sheathing my view of the cosmos. I could feel the holes and knots in my stomach, twisting and turning.
I entered the car and found the corridor empty. Surprised, but unalarmed, I returned to my box in order to prepare myself for the hours ahead. It would be days before I would know where I was going. Weeks before I cared. The old man remained as I had left him. Bound to his seat by the force of alcohol, clutching his empty whiskey bottle, he breathed. Wheezing and sputtering, he reminded me of an old engine. An engine clinging to its last length of life.
“Was that? What ‘d you…” He uttered.
I could still hear no one in the corridor and began to find it more and more peculiar. I rang for one of the train attendants. No answer. Once again. Nothing.
“What’s going on?” I said to myself.
And then the line rang.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Is, there a uh, problem sir? You rang us twice and all?” Replied the voice.
“I was going to ask you the same the thing.” I continued.
“Everything’s alright here sir, be pullin’ into station within in the next few hours.”
As I disconnected the line I could hear steps. The loud hard clicking sounds of a woman’s heels. At a swift pace they grew louder and closer. And then they stopped. I could see her silhouette against the window. Tall and slender. The door of the box swung open and in a few seconds she was gone. With the roar of three lions a river emerged from my chest and stomach. I was drifting. What had I expected? What had I thought? I was drifting. The serpent loosened his coil as my eyes fell toward the floor. As I heard the first of the passenger’s screams I looked toward the old man. He took no notice of me. He was a man unaffected by the troubles of the world around him.
A Short Story by Scott Bridgman.
“I need some air.”
Outside the car, in the long and narrow thoroughfare of the train, people moved about in their clumsy and ridiculous manner. Spilling drinks and smoking things, talking about the weather and work. Party symbols and advertisements plagued the walls. Sucking the life from the train as they have done to so many people over the years. Turning my back I made my way to the end of the train and opened the hatch-like door. The rain had stopped and from my back pocket I retrieved a crumpled box. One of my few remaining possessions. From the box I pulled my cylindrical comfort. And with the click of a flint I could feel the death creep within me. In and out of every pore, battling for passage against the cold night air. I heard not the roar of the train against the tracks but the crackling sound of the cigarette with each preceding breath. The smoke remained in the air, sheathing my view of the cosmos. I could feel the holes and knots in my stomach, twisting and turning.
I entered the car and found the corridor empty. Surprised, but unalarmed, I returned to my box in order to prepare myself for the hours ahead. It would be days before I would know where I was going. Weeks before I cared. The old man remained as I had left him. Bound to his seat by the force of alcohol, clutching his empty whiskey bottle, he breathed. Wheezing and sputtering, he reminded me of an old engine. An engine clinging to its last length of life.
“Was that? What ‘d you…” He uttered.
I could still hear no one in the corridor and began to find it more and more peculiar. I rang for one of the train attendants. No answer. Once again. Nothing.
“What’s going on?” I said to myself.
And then the line rang.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Is, there a uh, problem sir? You rang us twice and all?” Replied the voice.
“I was going to ask you the same the thing.” I continued.
“Everything’s alright here sir, be pullin’ into station within in the next few hours.”
As I disconnected the line I could hear steps. The loud hard clicking sounds of a woman’s heels. At a swift pace they grew louder and closer. And then they stopped. I could see her silhouette against the window. Tall and slender. The door of the box swung open and in a few seconds she was gone. With the roar of three lions a river emerged from my chest and stomach. I was drifting. What had I expected? What had I thought? I was drifting. The serpent loosened his coil as my eyes fell toward the floor. As I heard the first of the passenger’s screams I looked toward the old man. He took no notice of me. He was a man unaffected by the troubles of the world around him.
A Short Story by Scott Bridgman.