Flash Fiction / Writing

Tick, Tick, Tick by L.A. Murphy

Rolling, turning, faster, faster. Lights flicker, turns are screeching. Brakes scratch, light breaks and we stop. Open, closed, running, squeezing, cattle herding into a pen that takes them some place they don’t want to be and yet they all cling to the metal bars, reeking of desperation.

Push button, turn key, lever forward, the clock forever ticking. Timing. Off we go again. Chatter behind.

Rolling, turning, faster, faster. Lights flicker, turns are screeching. Brakes scratch, light breaks and we stop. An emptier platform, less people, buildings above are smaller, not as much money to be had so not as many bodies. Barely anyone gets off, most just want the doors to close faster.

Push button, turn key, lever forward, the clock forever ticking. Watching. Off we go again. Chatter behind. Rolling, turning, faster, faster. Lights flicker, turns are screeching. Brakes scratch, light breaks and we stop.

Entities merge, oozing out and in without a care. Suits and plain clothes all the same now. No one has a manner to spare as they trade places. Bank account size is irrelevant here, people squeeze into place like dollars in a wallet, not a single one of them really happy. Business sector. Plenty of commerce to be had here for the savvy man or woman. More business for them means more business for me.

Push button, turn key, lever forward, the clock forever ticking. Watching. Off we go again. Chatter behind. Rolling, turning, faster, faster. Lights flicker, turns are screeching. Brakes scratch, light breaks and we stop.

Same again, business sector. The plain clothes leave as the cancer of suits begins to overwhelm the carriages. Even the sickest organism has a ray of hope and the one here is found in the corner, on the floor amidst the suits. Scruffy and homeless, drinking from a plain can, stinking of shit and piss. The final stretch of humanity exists solely in a person that simply doesn’t give a fuck and resides in the only man that no one wants to admit exists.

Push button, turn key, lever forward, the clock forever ticking. Watching. Off we go again. Chatter behind. Rolling, turning, faster, faster. Lights flicker, turns are screeching. Brakes scratch, light breaks and we stop.

Mid ground now, suits leave to head either for a cheap lay or a change of clothes before family time. Often times the two merge, a fuck before family time. We’re reaching full capacity because we’re still a few stops from the residences. The cargo will be listening and reading, staring at their palms and imagining themselves anywhere else but here. Such is life, day after day of failed escapism.

It seems only right that if that’s what they want, then that’s what i should give them, it’s my job after all. Taking people to where they want to go is what I do best.

Emerge from the tunnel, light shines bright, the sun is here and so is our salvation. The end of the journey is near, albeit a few stops earlier than it’s supposed to but it’s what they want. It’s what we need.

Push button, turn key, lever forward, the clock ticks it’s last few minutes. Screaming behind. Rolling, turning, faster, faster. Lights explode, metals are screeching, brakes irrelevant. Carriage breaks and we stop.

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