Mystery
What happens to unclaimed corpses?
This is a mistake. He thought. What happened at the banquet? What have I done? The more the artist thought and shifted, the more the light began to take shape in his eyes. He could see that he was in a container of cadavers, mistaken for human waste. He perceived a slight quaking. The bodies, their hair, held the smallest drift from side to side. It was not born from his movement. The container itself was in transit.
By J. Kendall Bates3 years ago in Fiction
The Runaway Train of Barstow
WOOOOOOOOOO WOOOO WOOOO!!!!! The common Train Horn is heard from miles away, in the little country town. Every Monday morning, Robert wakes up early, by 0500. Out of his routine for Robert, but every Monday, he pulls it off before school. After waking up, getting dressed for school, and scarfing his breakfast down, little Robert races through the woods as fast as his 10 year old feet can move! “Young man, slow down” his mother cries as he races out the screen door, nearly knocking his mother over!
By Derek Phelps3 years ago in Fiction
On The Wright track
Maybe the clickety-clack sounds of the train running rapidly over the track was the biggest factor of why Brad Wright suddenly awakened; but in all likelihood, it was the uneasy feeling that one gets when they feel like they are being watched. That uneasy feeling was made even more heart wrenching for Brad because of an unmitigated circumstance; Brad was nearly all alone, on a speeding train, with only one other person in sight, his estranged, identical twin, Chad, who was standing over him.
By Carman Marshall 3 years ago in Fiction
A Journey to Remember
The sound of the train on the tracks was the first thing he registered. That rhythmic beat that soaks into the body. As sense slowly returned to his body the man realized he was, rather strangely, lying on the floor. With what was far too much effort for such a simple task he opened his eyes and, rather unsteadily, sat up. He was indeed aboard a train, in what looked to be the cargo hold, a reasonable deduction given all the stacks of boxes. Deciding that the binds of the nearest stack looked too strained for his liking, the man forced himself to his feet.
By Rupert Rowlingson 3 years ago in Fiction
Murder Expressed
It was the thrumming that woke him, his head bobbing with the rhythmic pulse of the engine. Lloyd forced his eyes open, cursing the tinkling crystal that tickled his ears. Soft yellow light filled the dining car, toile curtains drawn across the windows. White linen underlaid the silver dinnerware, and the few chairs empty of patrons were built of mahogany and black leather.
By Megan Anderson3 years ago in Fiction
Muhtale Train
Kenny attempted to move his legs after having drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed like days. “Where am I?”, he thought as he struggled to think clearly and recall where he was. Every inch of his body was soaking wet. Was it sweat? Surely it couldn’t be sweat. “Did someone rescue me from drowning?” “Where in the world have I been?”
By Jonathan Ellis3 years ago in Fiction
Soul Train
“… But my body Yearned to be free I got up on the floor and thought Somebody could choose me…” . She wakes up on the train to the sounds of Marvin Gaye’s “Got to Give It Up, Part 1.” Speeds pass by much like the unknown amount of time that’s passed. The girl has no idea how long she’s been here or how fast she’s going. She looks around for luggage, a ticket, a clue.
By Erin Lucas3 years ago in Fiction
The Last Train
Sophie opened her eyes and didn’t know where she was. There was movement beneath her, gentle jostling and clattering, and as she sat up, she found herself looking at dark-stained wood paneling, a large window showing the world whizzing by at speed beyond, and beneath her were white cotton sheets on a single bed up against one of those dark-stained wooden walls. It didn’t make sense to her, she realized, that she was on a train, especially a train that looked like this. When had she boarded? Where was her ticket? On inspecting the room, she couldn’t find any evidence of her belongings, or a ticket, and she couldn’t fathom why she was wearing a long white nightgown, of all things. She had never even bought such an item of clothing; it looked painfully dated, with lace at the cuffs of the long, puffed sleeves, and sitting against her collarbone where it trimmed the gown’s collar. Her long, dark hair was up in a braid down her back and, stranger still, there was nothing on her feet.
By Violet Cook3 years ago in Fiction
