tompg.uk

Tonight, the stars were not silent. They blinked and they shone brightly, and their whispers cut through the cold air: “Run rabbit, run!”. And it did.
It ran through the cover of snowflakes floating to the floor, joining the thick blanket that covered the land. Leaping forward with its muscular legs, the hare broke the night’s silence with a soft crunch each time it landed in the thick snow.
The wolf followed.

The hare navigated the snow, trying to find deep pockets of loose snow that it could pass over but would give way under the wolf’s weight.
The wolf leapt over the weak snow.

He felt the chilled air enter its lungs and the blood pumping to each individual muscle as they exploded its body forwards. As he gave chase and the hare’s scent inflamed his nostrils he experienced what countless ancestors had – the thrill of the hunt. He had been designed for this over millions of years of evolution. Every single one of his forefathers had lived and died to further the species, and right now, he was the culmination of every single one. They lived in him, egging him on, feeding the fire that burned in every muscle.

The first death is in the heart and the hare’s will refused to let it succumb. There was nothing in its way but the horizon. A plan was forming in its mind; as it sailed past a tree, it turned, coming within a jaw’s distance of the wolf – so close that it felt spittle splash down onto its fur. The wolf tried for the hare’s throat, where life bubbled near the surface, and his jaws sunk into air, not finding purchase. The hare now bound back in the direction it had came, its gamble paid off.

The wolf’s shoulder knocked against the tree, half buried in snow, sending a jolt up the trunk and shaking a branch into dropping an armful of snow on it. It took a moment to shake the snow off its white coat and then it scanned the stark landscape for the white rabbit. It may seem difficult to spot white on white, but the wolf had long since adapted to the Arctic hues, being able to differentiate contiguous shades of white as we might purple from black.

His eyes settled between two haggard and bare bushes and his muscles sprang to action, propelling him across the wasteland of frost and snow. Soon, the distance was closing and the intimate hunt had resumed. The wolf bounded across fallen branches and pools of ice, narrowing the hare’s lead with movements more fluid and tireless than the snow that fell.

The world shrunk in on itself and narrowed until all that was left in the wolf’s vision was the hare and the space between them – getting closer, and closer, and closer.

Up until now, every action – every decision – had brought him here, had delivered him to the hare’s neck. Thoughts flashed in his mind of peace – a world devoid of death, a world devoid of hunger. A world of mercy.
But mercy was a thing reserved for gentler lands and his hunger burned.

Teeth sank into the panicked prey, deeper and deeper still until doomed flesh was resting on bared gums.
Blood seeped onto the moon flooded snow, spilling outwards.

The hare’s body twitched and convulsed as it spent its last breaths pleading into the quiet night before it was brought to silenced comfort by the wolf’s jaw.
Before death, a final, simple thought: ‘when it is dark, where do the stars go?’. Now, the wind’s eulogy was the only sound that penetrated the night.
Warmth diffused throughout the wolf’s mouth, spreading as the juices of his kill flooded every sensation. Above the snow in the empty night the wolf lapped up the ruby blood. In a land emptier than seconds ago, the wolf fed on its kill. Death was sweet on his tongue and soon the ecstasy of it overcame his senses.
The wolf’s mind was barraged with a million thoughts of a billion beings. A waterfall flowing, a garden blooming – a picnic. Streets and sodium lights – high speed fibre optics. Warmth in the night.

It was everything and everything was it. Feasting on its own flesh, the universe gave itself sustenance. The stars watched.

Seven minutes ago a bout had started in the third carriage of a train. It had started because the train was hurtling at breakneck speeds down the tracks, racing to the death of everyone on board. Well, the whole commotion had actually started because two men were very upset about the fact that the train they were on was hurtling down the tracks, sending them to their deaths at breakneck speeds.

You’ll have to trust me here – this isn’t some literary technique used to hook a reader – this train is certainly going to crash and every single person on board is going to die. And not in the way that everyone dies eventually – in the way that this train is going to pick up so much speed it goes flying straight off the track into the side of a cliff, causing the deaths of every person on board.

It was certainly a bout – a simple ‘fight’ does not describe nearly how antiquated it was. On the side of the train closer to imminent doom an older gentlemen adjusted his hat into what was clearly its fighting position, ready to spar with the man opposite, who had cleverly positioned himself so he was at least half a metre away and would gain a precious fraction of a second when the train would come to a very sudden and very fatal halt.

In this valuable second he would save, he might use it to inspect his watch, perhaps to check if he was late for any meetings. This watch currently sat on his left arm, which was raised in fisticuffs just in time to clock the old-timer square on the jaw. The older gentlemen retaliated with a much weaker, minute jab before the man with the watch followed up with a second punch, instantly knocking the old man clean out. An irregular grin seemed to plaster itself on his wrinkled face as he fell to the floor.

The victor of the bout dusted his fists and checked his watch. Twenty-three past five. This watch never told the time right and it was especially useless at the moment as he wasn’t quite sure exactly what time this train would crash. He found himself regretting the money he had spent adorning the piece’s bezel with a delicate silver lace. Until now the watch was one of the few things he didn’t regret, having spent many months of overtime and late nights saving for all the bells and whistles, none of which included a counter until his death. That would’ve been quite handy right now.

“Aw man, I really didn’t mean to do that,” said the man with the Watch, looking down at the unconscious man.

When their situation first became obvious to them, he had reacted calmly and slowly – even his movements seemed to be economic and done sparingly. At first, fear did not even register on his face – maybe he had been waiting for a consultant’s review of the situation to confirm if he should be scared. But when an older man had started antagonizing him for not reacting to their situation, his previously well contained temper started to bubble over. What had seemed to others as a calm and uncaring demeanor was just the man’s best attempt at a positive attitude – that didn’t last very long.

A few of the other passengers stared in disbelief while the rest were wrapped up in their own world, thinking about what was going to happen to the train next and how they could possibly be saved.

They had tried the obvious solutions; they had searched up and down for a guard, wasting what valuable time they had left. They had tried ringing the driver’s telecom but the line was dead. Anyone in charge had long left the train – in one manner or another.

The other two passengers in the carriage, a man and a woman sitting opposite each other, looked over in stunned disbelief. They were all going to die and these men were fighting? Was it really the best time?

But the train did not care about time. The train shot ahead at a perpetually increasing speed, eager to race ahead until it shot off the tracks, sending every person on board to their deaths.

Seven minutes ago he left the house, remembering to lock the door, and headed off for the train station for his job interview. At least that was the plan. In reality, the Man was – seven minutes after he was meant to leave – running around looking for his keys that he was supposed to use to lock the door, seven minutes ago.

His first thought, perhaps unorthodox, was to check underneath everything: it wasn’t sitting with the dust mites under the couch, nor was it lost in a crevice between the pillows, neither was it under the dining room table and it somehow wasn’t under the closed cabinet door of the kitchen sink. The man started to think, perhaps, at this point he should check his room, where he usually kept his keys. So he entered his bedroom, tidied from the night before, and found his keys right on the bedside table – where he had left them. A little bubble of annoyance threatened to float into his mind, but he knew this was not a great deal in the grand scheme of things, so, he settled with being a bit miffed at his daftness.

This interview was the kind that couldn’t afford to be missed, or even slightly late to, so as time ticked away he took great strides to the front door. He also needed to be his most presentable and had spent the better half of an hour primping and preening, trying out all sorts of clothes, hairstyles and smiles to see which worked best for this interview. He settled on the suit he had worn to his parent’s wedding, a sleek black suit the tailoring of which had taken him half a month of saving and skipping meals to afford. In the end he had only been able to afford the jacket’s tailoring, resulting in pant legs slightly too big for the rest of him. He combined this with a light blue tie spotted with sunflowers that, according to the colour wheel he had studied, would complement the black suit nicely. His hair was swept back with a few delicate strands left suspended in front of his forehead, culminating in a look of rugged preparedness a movie protagonist may wear. The final and toughest decision was his smile – this could make or break the interview –  which he decided to wear as two-thirds of a full grin with a slight bias to the left side.

As he finally got to the front door he did all the important checks: keys; check, phone; got it, wallet – his hand felt around his chest – he was missing his tie! He made the journey back to his room for the umpteenth time, now in a state of rush greater than a hedgehog late to hibernation. He scurried his way through the house dodging and weaving  tables and couches that would have been a waste of valuable time to walk around.

He barged through the door and lunged for the tie sitting on the backrest of his chair where he had neatly positioned it the night before. He grabbed one end and wrapped it around his neck, pulling and looping it. No, that was wrong. He looped it around his neck, pulled it and then wrapped it. No, no still wrong. He wrapped it then looped it then pulled it and then looped it. He inspected his handiwork in the mirror. It did look like he was wearing a tie? But not really much beyond that, definitely not suitable for an interview, he couldn’t throw away all the work he put into his notch smile with a kerfuffled tie. His irritation dragged him to the floor and his fret kept him down. Maybe he could just postpone the interview that could change his life? It was all a bit too much for the poor man.

A gentle knock on the door preceded his mom peeking through and coming in. This wasn’t the first time she had found her son in a bit of a state, lying on the floor.

“Boy, you better pick yourself up off that floor. Are you really expecting your poor old mother to reach all the way down there?” said his mom.

“Reach?” the man responded.

“Well of course, how else am I meant to tie your tie? I don’t want to be rude but from the look of it I assume you might want a bit of help.”

Admitting defeat, the man stood up and straightened himself, allowed his mom to gently reach the tie around his neck, giving it a few twists and pulls until an elegant knot was formed.

“Thank you mom, but can you teach me sometime? I think its about time I learn,” said the man, feeling like more of a grown up boy.”

His mom responded with a smile.

“Of course I will, but not now! You’ve got a train to catch and an interview to smash.”

“Yes, yes! I nearly forgot!”

Resuming his state of rush, now with far gentler waves of emotion, the man grabbed all his things and made to leave.

“Remember your wallet,” his mom told him as she tossed his wallet through the house into his open hands. He forgot that he had forget that.

He had heard that paramedics never run to patients as it kept them calmer and prevented any unnecessary injuries or falls that could waylay their medical attention. He adopted this cautious haste on his way to the train station, walking as fast as he could without picking his feet into a run.

He walked into the station, entering underneath a great clock suspended from the ceiling. Its chime brought his attention upward and his haste was slowed down by awe. He gaped at the beauty of the ornamental ceiling. It felt so far away, so high up, that he almost forgot he was inside. Pigeons flew between the rusted blue copper joists that bridged the gap between the vast barrel vaulted ceiling. So many soared above his head that it seemed the station was a greater hub for pigeon activity than human.

Snapping him back to reality a young girl barely managed to avoid running straight through his body by barging into his shoulder and hurtling off so quickly that her hurried apology faded into the distance.

Rather than annoyance the man, now brought back to his usual state of peace through a combination of motherly love and pretty pigeons, felt sorry for the poor girl. This feeling gradually shifted and blossomed into gratefulness that he was now on track to make his train in time after all that rushing about. He could hear the bellow of a train pulling into the station so he went back to a state of measured haste, hovering a foot over and onto the train’s carriage, now with the knowledge that it would all work out in the end.

This man was not a very pleasant one. He had been one of the least kind souls imaginable. He had his reasons – he didn’t create anger from nothing, he merely was continuing his family’s legacy of hatred. His father had talked to him with words like artillery and he now knew that he couldn’t continue this legacy, for the sake of others – and himself.

Recently, something had switched – he was trying to be better. No great or disastrous event had ignited an explosion of change in him but rather it had been present and growing, like a tindered bonfire, for a long time.

Change wasn’t immediate, you can’t destroy years of foundations of anger with true love and a cheerful smile – just as it takes years to build, it takes years to start afresh.

He had decided to leave his old job, giving up his lofty position in the finance world for a less stressful lifestyle. He had sneakily told his new employer that he was only able to start in a week from now, giving himself some much needed free time. His first objective was to finally get his watch fixed. While many hours of overtime might’ve paid for the beautiful timepiece, they had also restricted him, giving him precious few hours in a day that he felt he had to spend attempting to relax, neglecting everything that wasn’t a basic human need. He had been in survival mode for too long to remember, his life paused to the point of his memory degrading. He struggled to differentiate days from each other. But today he would take his watch to some old, eccentric specialist in town and they would finally get his watch moving again after it hadn’t ticked – nor tocked – for several months now.

To brighten up his day he started towards the station’s nearest coffee stall before quickly halting as a figure nearly collided with him. He held his tongue and watched the figure speed away. It helped him to come up with fake reasons as to why people would interrupt his good days, perhaps this person was late for a first date.

He continued on with his goal of caffeination but was interrupted again, this time mid conversation with the barista. A hawker, usually resigned to shoving their wares at anyone who dared come close, had taken the offensive and was trying to throw whatever he was selling in the man’s face.

The man fiddled with his watch and tried his best to promptly end the hawking and continue his conversation with the barista. It took nearly a full minute before the hawker admitted defeat and the man could get on with his day and finally have his coffee. At least that would cheer him up.

“As I was saying sir, we can’t do that. We’ve run out of beans I’m afraid,” said the barista.

“What? You’ve run out of coffee beans? The coffee shop has run out of coffee beans?”

The young barista stumbled over her words to blurt out an apology, verbally sweating: “I know – I’m sorry, I really am – you see I think someone must’ve forgotten to put it on our restock list when closing yesterday – it really is an honest mistake I promise.”

“No that’s okay, I do understand I suppose,” responded the man while taking a deep breath and absentmindedly adjusting his watch’s time by fiddling with the knobs. After collecting himself he asked the barista why he was still open if he couldn’t serve anything.

“It’s company policy, I would really love to leave but we have to stay open for ‘brand awareness’ or something,” he said with a sigh.

With that, the man tuned his watch one last time and set off. He felt a bit bad for the barista, having to waste his time for some company metrics, but more importantly he felt bad for how he had initially approached the conversation. Life seemed to be harder when you actually cared about being nice to others.

As he was walking to his platform his broad shoulders were barged into. This resulted in more of a nudge due to huge size difference between him and the girl that ran off with an apology left in her wake. He took a moment to breath. He wouldn’t let things as small as these compound to ruin his day – but a small part of him deep down found it a bit distasteful. He himself hadn’t been the best in respecting others personal space; he used to utilize his sheer size to carve a path through crowds all the while thinking his important meeting was any more important than anything in everyone else’s lives. He had started to reform with what he liked to call his “Anti-Barging Program” and it rubbed him the wrong way that already two others today were moving adverse to it. He did however realize that he was probably more annoyed at his past self than this hapless girl sprinting through the station. “Life was almost easier when I didn’t care about being pleasant,” he thought.

He tried to focus on his daily bread –  the small things that let him wake up everyday, choosing to focus on them rather than miracles that might happen.

He knew that changing his fundamental personality and rewiring his brain was not the smallest task and would take time so he tried to focus on his daily bread, the things that kept him going each day. He knew that he was going to fail again and again and keep trying every time.

The old man had paid many tithes to the passage of time. His face was marked with crow’s feet and lined with wrinkles from dozens of years of smiling. A lifetime of experiencing human emotions had left its toll on him. His body ached but his mind was lush and warm with memories of days spent running through falling leaves, watching the seasons change and weathering into old age with loved ones.

Should you ask him if he had any regrets from his long life, he might crease his smile lines once more and say that he was regretful about nothing, as every mistake had been a learning experience – each one a thread in the tapestry of his life.

But there was a snag in the tapestry – not large enough to threaten an unraveling, but it was present regardless of his wise but deceitful response.

He missed punching people.

Now he had never been of a violent inclination, and for each punch he threw he certainly had a few come his way – he played fair. In his youth, he had been a boxer.

And he was good too – in his 16 matches he had never once been defeated.

His crowds were never big – he was still early on in his career when he spent the last of his prize money on a university education. This was a gamble that paid dividends as his career was relatively prosperous and was able to bring his family a stable income through his participation in the setting out of the country’s sprawling railroads. While he had settled comfortably into a softer life he did truly miss the nights in the ring where he spent blood and breath like currency. A yearning resided in him, biding its time and gnawing away at his soul.

The day was an icy one and as he walked to his destination the frost on the ground sparkled, as if thousands of paparazzi ants were taking his picture, glints and flashes harking back to walk outs spent basking in the adoration of a clamoring crowd.

On this day, every year for the past three years, he woke up early in the morning to prepare a picnic. It was always a huge spread, far too big for him, but every year he would pack his picnic and take it on the train to the graveyard. He would spend the rest of the day with his wife and son, sharing his sandwiches and snacks with any other visitors.

He knew his life was coming to an end and he was not perturbed by it. He had lived a long and fulfilling life and would live it countless times over if he could. Many people fear death and he knew that, but for him any fear of leaving unfinished business was beaten out by a great sense of apathy and acceptance. He had lived his life, and now he waited.

Treading carefully to avoid slipping and falling on the ice – that would be far too embarrassing a way to go – he stepped onto the train that would take him to the graveyard.

Everyday for the past three weeks she had taken the same train to visit her brother, but today she was running late. Her train was the last one for the next 40 minutes and if she missed it she would miss the hospital’s visiting hours. She would be able to visit tomorrow but each day was vital to her and she didn’t want her brother feeling lonely.

She knew there was no need to worry about his solitude; her brother was great at making friends and bringing out the best in people. The moment he had given the delivery room a gummy grin everyone had decided they would be the little newborn’s friend. His first days in hospital had mostly consisted of chatting to every nurse and doctor on the ward and by the second day, he knew everyone’s names – the nurses would test him by covering their name badges when they brought him his medication. By the end of the first week he was helping a girl from the paediatric ward take her very shaky steps down the corridor. The same girl now makes the journey to his bed all by herself and pleads the nurses to let him just take a few steps with her.

Without realizing it, she had started sprinting to the train station, just a few blocks away now.

Their mom had stopped visiting her brother the past few days. She didn’t blame her mom, they were all still recovering from their father’s death when they had received the diagnosis. It was all just a bit much for a poor old mother’s aching heart. This was part of the reason she couldn’t miss a single visit – someone had to see him, to hug him and bring his favourite snacks – rice cakes with that crispy chocolate covering. He hadn’t been able to eat them for four days now but even their sugary smell allowed her to see his sunny, warm smile.

Only one block away from the station now and barely a minute until the train would pull away from the platform, dragging the last chance of visiting away with it. A shortcut through an alley led her to climbing a set of stairs two and then three steps at a time, bounding upwards.

There had been no official terminal diagnosis for her brother yet, but somewhere in her, she knew what was going to happen. She was a resilient, hopeful person; she would have hope if she thought there was a sliver of a chance.

On the days where the never ending tide of grief crashed harder on her mind’s shores, she felt that, perhaps, they were just observing the suffering of another family in some film, the kind that they all used to watch together, curled up in blankets and wrapped in each other’s warmth.

She fumbled in her pocket to feed the ticket machine and bolted through the barrier, ran around the corner and… her train was not there. It wasn’t even dramatically puffing steam as it pulled out of the station just as she arrived, it just wasn’t there. She had probably missed it by minutes and none of her shortcuts had even mattered.

There were times where she allowed her mind to wander to a darker place, to imagine the slow, burning pull of a rope on her neck, the tightening of her airways and the eventual painless relief of nothingness. There was never any danger of her doing it but she found a dark comfort in the fantasy. She thought of it as a threat to the world – if you take my brother, I will play no part in your narrative.

The autumnal leaves scattered on the ground started to leap and glide through the air, she felt a burst of wind brush through her hair and looked up to see a train pulling in. She checked the timetable and her suspicion was confirmed. A train had arrived early, nearly 40 minutes early. This was quite out of the ordinary for the rail service, in fact she wouldn’t have been surprised if this was a heavily delayed train from yesterday. But regardless, she would be able to arrive before visiting hours ended.

Was this a sign? She didn’t really believe in that kind of stuff but in addition to allowing her to visit her brother, the train’s arrival did bring some kind of cheap comfort, maybe someone, or something, was looking out for her after all. Perhaps something not omnipotent, but willing to try tip the scales in her favor, ever so slightly.

Almost cautiously her foot hovered over the gap between the train and the platform. Her inner optimism burned stronger, like an ever present bonfire, urging her to take the step over the gap.

A small kitten slinked between every pair of legs that rushed by, mewling at each one as if calling for a friend. The kitten appeared to be black but it’s fur coat was actually a dirtied dark blue, resulting in a coat that resembled the glistening of an oil spill in the deep ocean, the kind that kills a whole host of creature. This kitten was far less menacing than a, quite frankly, rude description of its fur would lead you to believe. While it might have barely survived a few weeks on the street, it was not capable enough to kill a critter, never mind a whole creature. Up to this point it had survived on the generosity of the tall legged benefactors. Most blundered past the little kitten blissfully unaware of its piteous existence, but a few would stop and and give him a little scratch behind his ear. Peculiarly, it was almost always behind the left one, leaving his right ear which seemed to have a cut that resembled a hole being punched out of it, very unscratched. If he was fortunate, one or two of the scratchers would also give him a bit of food.

One time he had been granted a taste of an unknown meat that tasted very fishy. He thought it might perhaps even be fish. Of the few meals he had, a very spare selection would contain meat, let alone the delicacy of freshish fish. Most consisted of scraps of bread or leftovers. Not that he was complaining.

Deciding that he would not be making today’s friend right now and would have better luck later, he made his way to the final stop for today – the bakery. The kitten continued its slinking, now attempting to do so in a sinister slinking manner to better blend in with the locals. To get to the bakery it had to pass through the seediest part of the catways – the alley. It slinked and sneaked its way through, avoiding a loud and messy fight and almost staring too long at the balding cat sitting on his trashcan throne, throwing filthy objects at any lesser subjects who looked at him the wrong way.

The bakery was a sad sight. The door was shut and the usual begging cats were replaced by blank air and a cold breeze. The door loomed above the kitten, telling it to scram and it would have but scramming implies haste and the little kitten had used up all his haste for the day. There really wasn’t much left to do today except for a bit of moping, which he got right down to doing.  The rest of the day was going to be spent slowly loping down lonely streets but this was suddenly interrupted by the arrival of a friendly pair of legs. This pair was very different to the others; while at first it sped down the street with a rapid stride, the accompanying baggy suit legs slowed down right before they knocked into the despondent little kitten, acknowledging his pitiful presence.

The legs came with a voice. They said: “Aren’t you a cute little one?” and seemed more statement than question, yes, it was certainly a cute little one and was quite pleased that someone finally noticed. This was certainly a friendly pair of legs with a very astute voice.

“I would love to spend more time with you little one but I really have got to catch this train,” said the legs.

This wouldn’t do, no not at all. The kitten had finally found a friend and wouldn’t let them leave it so quickly. Taking matters into its own paws, it scurried off stealthily behind the heels of the legs, following it all the way to the station until it crossed a massive gap onto a train. The kitten was determined and stepped back a few paces before running into a gargantuan leap that left it soaring over the craterous gap and into the train carriage.

The screeching on the rails seemed like the only sound. It felt like it had been the only sound for a thousand years.

Cooling like ice, the once angry man helped up the Old man, somehow conveying an apologetic tone through his hurried hand motions. The Old man smiled, put a gentle hand on the other’s shoulder and whispered some no doubt insightful wisdom. While it was a quick conversation it was perhaps the most important – and last – of their lives, ending in an embrace and a compliment towards a particular watch.

Nearly drowned out by the chaos, a timid mewling was picked up by a Man. Almost immediately after it had gotten the slightest bit of recognition the kitten clambered up the Man’s baggy pants and leapt into his lap and started making biscuit. Back when they had a cat his mom told him that this was something they did when they missed their mother. He couldn’t blame the little guy because quite frankly if it brought him any comfort he would be doing the same. He cradled the wiry ball of fur, shielding it from the outside world with his arms. They sat like that until the end. And together, they missed their mothers.

While the cacophony of chaos reigned on, for a young girl the only sound she heard was  the buzz of her phone. She had gotten a text – a text from her brother. So many wish for just one last conversation with their loved ones and she had that right now. A primordial response, a melancholic joy, spread through her body. Sometimes, in fleeting moments, people asked for just one more moment, one more day, one last touch. Perhaps, she had been granted this – perhaps, somewhere across time and space things had gone differently and pity had been taken on her, fulfilling a dying, whispered wish. One last conversation. Her fingers slid across her phone as she typed out a reply to her dying brother.

The moment was soon arriving and the Man knew it. Each moment perpetually closer than the last, stretching the veil of time taught and thin. He looked down at the warmth on his lap. “The world is such a beautiful place, you just have to see it,” he told the warmth. He knew what he had to do. He cradled it in his arms and rose from his seat. He walked to the emergency door with the measured but hasteful steps of a man who had all the time in the world – and knew this was only a few moments.

Not a soul in the world could rend the warmth he protected out of his caring arms.

He motioned to the two men talking with each other, who seemed to know what he intended from just a glance. They strode to the door, flicked the emergency switch and each took a side of the door in their hands and pulled with immense force on the stuck door, which deemed them the greater and relented to their grasp.

The Man with the sunflower tie and the kitten in his arms hovered one foot out of the door, looking below at the tracks speeding by. He put his weight on his hovering foot, stepping over and off the train’s carriage, knowing it would all work out in the end.

*

The kitten curled up even further to become as small a target as possible, hiding from the cracking and crunching as they started to slow down. It lay trapped for a moment, trying to burrow its way out of its tender-hearted warden to no avail. But then, its surroundings unfurled, revealing the bright sun reflecting on the path of trodden grass they had left. I did not lie; not a single person left that train alive.

In the distance, fire and smoke suffocated the air of a cliffside.

That evening, clouded in smoke and ash the sun set like it did every day, a benevolent, uncaring presence watching over the world.

There had only been four people on that train and each and every one of them left behind a drag path, a trail of evidence that they had lived – and died.