PFTIB: A Short Work of Fiction, Vol. 8 (Pt. 5)

We sat groggy—a huddled mass in the train station at 5:am.

We were convinced we’d miss our train back to London if we slept the night before, so we found ourselves waiting to leave wonderland with more than four hours to go.

Hunched over on a bench, collar pulled up around my ears, I drifted in and out of sleep, occasionally catching a chill from the wind sweeping through the station.

“This is what it must feel like to be homeless,” I thought to myself, as we sat staring at cold empty tracks.

Stan put on his earphones and melted away into a mix tape, as I looked around the station.

We were the only ones there, save for an old bum with dreadlocks, carrying an umbrella, but he was so far down the tracks, he was barely more than a fuzzy silhouette.

I coughed, my lungs tired from the trip, and heard the echo ring through the vast, empty station.

This was a golden opportunity. I pulled out my harmonica and let it wail, the slowest blues riff I could conjure. I wailed as if I were a troubled soul with a dark cloud hanging in my past—perhaps I was.

Time oft waters down the context of memory.

My private jam was cut short as the homeless dread walked past, followed closely by a dutch cop. The homeless man was yelling at the law as they passed.

He was an american, with the most generic of inner city dialects.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8a | 8b | 8c | 8d

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