Added£0.99Add to basket(A short story of 3089 words)
A Feast of Flash Fictions
Humour Literary
by Brindley Hallam Dennis
Ten Flash Fictions, from 449 to 96 words short. Illicit affairs and railroad crashes, murderous spouses and vengeful neighbours.
When her train came in, Barton told himself, he would find the words.
The station was all but deserted at that time of night. The cafe and the coffee bars were shuttered. There were very few people about, and all of them clustered near the main entrance, waiting for trains or people on trains, or for things known only to themselves. A member of the emergency services in a peaked cap and wearing something that looked like a yellow life jacket had strolled through, equipment reminiscent of rescue gear dangling from his belt. It was nearly midnight, and neon lights blazed under the Victorian glass canopy. It would be tomorrow soon, and tomorrow would be another day.
Barton walked to the end of the platform, which stuck out pier-like into the sea of darkness where coloured lights glimmered like marker-buoys. One thing is always like another. He could not find the right words though, which would be like the truth, and what he needed to say.
When her train came in, he told himself, the right words would come too, as if they had also been carried in under the harsh light of the glass canopy, out of darkness...
When her train came in, Barton told himself, he would find the words.
The station was all but deserted at that time of night. The cafe and the coffee bars were shuttered. There were very few people about, and all of them clustered near the main entrance, waiting for trains or people on trains, or for things known only to themselves. A member of the emergency services in a peaked cap and wearing something that looked like a yellow life jacket had strolled through, equipment reminiscent of rescue gear dangling from his belt. It was nearly midnight, and neon lights blazed under the Victorian glass canopy. It would be tomorrow soon, and tomorrow would be another day.
Barton walked to the end of the platform, which stuck out pier-like into the sea of darkness where coloured lights glimmered like marker-buoys. One thing is always like another. He could not find the right words though, which would be like the truth, and what he needed to say.
When her train came in, he told himself, the right words would come too, as if they had also been carried in under the harsh light of the glass canopy, out of darkness...