I sat with my legs crossed peering out the window. I didn’t mind the view. The rolling hills of the English countryside always tickled my fancy. Different shades of green covered the land, mowed into nice fields. Cows and sheep mingled with one another, separately. Charming, quaint, classic, Tudor houses sprinkled the hillsides. It felt like home. Home. Where was my home?

The seat beneath was cushioned softly, red velvet, bearing the weight of my bony buttocks, legs crossed neatly below the table.  On the surface spread in front of me was today’s newspaper and a half-drunken cup of coffee. One sugar. Two creams. How I always took it. Funnily enough, I was halfway done with the crossword, too. I didn’t remember doing that. 

Then I caught a glimpse of the date on the paper. The font looked different than I remember. No. It couldn’t be. 2022? Did I step forward in time? If it was 2022… that would make me... 85? I couldn’t be 85. I had my whole life ahead of me. 

“Excuse me miss,” I put my finger in the air as a concierge walked by with a cart full of sweets.

“Hello, Mr. Bruner. Would you like a lemon scone today? Or perhaps a blueberry tart?” The woman asked with a smile, wrinkled lines forming by the sides of her young eyes. She wore a long black skirt with a red blazer, pressed neatly. A matching red conductor’s cap sat atop her blonde hair. It was slicked back in a stylish bun. Two tendrils framed her delicate face. Why did she look so familiar?

“Oh, no, no, no. Mr. Bruner, he’s my father. Call me Harry,” I responded. 

“So, Harry, which will it be?” The young woman asked.

“What? Which will what be?” I retorted.

“Lemon scone, or blueberry tart? I know they’re your favorites. What about one of each?” The kind young woman began by grabbing parchment paper and reaching into her cart.

“How would you know anything about me and what kinds of sweets I prefer?” I began to feel irate. The audacity. “Why does the newspaper say 2022? Where are you taking me?” 

“Now, Harry,” the young woman started. “We’ve gone over this.” She began to look around nervously for assistance. 

“Don’t you dare call me Harry, you disrespectful little twit! You shall address me as Mr. Bruner and you will tell me where you’re taking me. What kind of experiments have you done on me? What kind of drugs are coursing through my body? This must end, at once!” 

“Mr. Bruner – I –" The young woman was interrupted by a middle-aged man who looked a lot like my uncle, Charlie. He leaned down and whispered into her ear. She scurried off, and Uncle Charlie took a seat. 

“Uncle Charlie? Is that you? You must tell me what’s going on at once. Why have we gone forward in time? Where is this train taking us? Help me, uncle. Help me understand.” 

Uncle Charlie sat across from me and crossed his legs in the same manner as I was accustomed to doing myself. His eyes looked tired. Red from allergies, tears, a punch to the face? I couldn’t be sure. It was unlike Charlie to get emotional. It was certainly like Charlie to start a fight. He grabbed the paper from the table and scanned the crossword puzzle. 

“You’ve almost finished, Dad.” Uncle Charlie said.

“With the crossword,” Uncle Charlie set down the crossword in front of me. There was a new tear in the upper right-hand corner of the paper. “Come on, you know the answer to this one?” He pointed to 23 across. 

“Yes. Which member of The Beatles wrote While My Guitar Gently Weeps? That would be… Uhm. George Harrison.” I began scribbling feverishly on the paper. 

“You got it, Dad. Keep going. We’ll be there soon.” 

Ryan Booth

The Lonely Locomotive

As memories fade, they leave loved ones in an early stage of mourning. 

I sat with my legs crossed peering out the window. I didn’t mind the view. The rolling hills of the English countryside always tickled my fancy. Different shades of green covered the land, mowed into nice fields. Cows and sheep mingled with one another, separately. Charming, quaint, classic, Tudor houses sprinkled the hillsides. It felt like home. Home. Where was my home?



The Lonely Locomotive

As memories fade, they leave loved ones in an early stage of mourning.

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Ashley Lima

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Looking Back

The Lonely Locomotive

As memories fade, they leave loved ones in an early stage of mourning.

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of .css-13w9qce-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-accent);}Ashley Lima

About the Creator

Ashley Lima

Comments (2)

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Keep reading

Looking Back

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of Ashley Lima