ghost

[24]

Ocean Bream NanoPoblano2025 Tags: , , , , , , Leave a comment

In the darkness of the night, the stars tear holes in the black canvas shrouding the earth so they can peep through, decorating the sky with twinkling lights, playing hide and seek with each other and shooting at each other through the silent vacuum of the universe.

A shadow slinks behind the walls of houses. It creeps through the stinking back alleys where rubbish bins line the brick walls neatly, oozing bin juice. It pauses, sniffs, and slinks into an open bin. It guzzles, and slips out again, prowling for more. Its breath rattles in its throat, almost like a death rattle, and as it climbs out of yet another bin, its large, round belly glows in the dim light from the street lamps just outside the alleyway.

Another creature, with the same protruding belly and glowing eyes, slinks around the corner. It stops, eyeing its counterpart on the bin, and a low snarl starts in its throat. Hunger propels its forward, a deep, prolonged ache to fill an unknown void, and it rolls into the dustbin and begins to scavenge for food.

The rattling sound echoes through the alleyway, and a window above is thrown open. Light floods over the cobbles, and a low hiss emanates from the dustbin, as both creatures shy away from the brightness.

‘The cats are in the bins again, Hank!’

[24] Ghost Train

Ocean Bream NanoPoblano2024 Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

A man waits at a lonely train station. He looks at his knees.

The tunnel gapes a giant black hole to his right. Empty, full of ghosts. The rat colonies coexist with the ghouls, perhaps because they cannot see them.

When the trains rush by, the air scatters these creatures, and they grumble, and you can hear them but for the screaming as the train shrieks past. Sometimes they peer in through the windows, and you think it’s a ghostly image from an old poster, but it really is Old Man Riley from 1923 who broke his leg fixing the power lines and never made it back out to fresh air.

The station is empty tonight. A light sizzles and crackles by the escape stairs. The ‘Way Out’ sign is flickering, and the man glances furtively at it. The digital time board above his head states in its calm and technical way that the next train is on time, due in 3 minutes. He hears the familiar rushing sound through the tunnel, and cranes his neck to see what he can see. A gust of forceful wind blows his tie and lifts his hair off his forehead, and he settles back on his bench, looks at his knees again.

Nothing comes out of the tunnel. Yet he carries on looking furtively at his knees, as though avoiding eye contact. Often he shifts, moves his feet backwards, leans sideways, glances up, terrified, before looking down again. Studiously. Intently. His knees telling him the time. His knees carrying the secrets of the world.

When the train does pull into the station, he heaves a sigh of relief. Gets up, and enters through the open carriage doors. Then the train pulls away, and his terrified face peers out of the window at the ghost throngs on the empty platform.