Flash Fiction
An empty compartment, dead still.
The boisterous heartbeat of the locomotive muffled by modern silencers. A throbbing forehead pressed against glass. The breaths too dry for condensation. The streamlined train bustling through tunnels and underground stations. Bright flashes of yellow light flitting across his face, sweeping over his eyes; not sharp enough to sting, but lively enough to dry his sleep.
The weight of the day lurking a small distance beneath the surface; desperate to leap forth, to spew out. Instead, being sucked away lower still. Buried. Buried under days more ancient. The bubbling emotions draining into a tiny, over-pressured vial. The walls, quivering, already beginning to crack.
The blank face displaying a blank sadness. A sigh. A melancholy smile. The train penetrating into the gloom of yet another tunnel. The gloom resting softly, gently, almost compassionately on the set face.
More stations, more light. The vacant compartment exuding a poetic loneliness. The empty seats; the pale, erratic lights sliding backwards as if on a conveyer belt. Entire worlds rolling past.