Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Flash Fiction: G.A. Scheinoha

Grand Central

Because night forgets, you never will. Because darkness never cleanses so much as sheds the skin of today, then slithers underground towards the epidermis of tomorrow, you stow it all away.

Wound up, small, round, tight as a subway token, slim sliver slipped through the turnstile of your arms.

"All aboard!" comes the conductor's falsetto cry. This isn't the polar express. Just a passage in which pain is drawn by the caricature, painted in the expression of everyone present.

A rackety, tail bone rattling excursion through countryside made indistinguishable less by failing light than the pulled in focus, concentrated on the coach inside.

Despite the dim, details leap out. Stiff wood backed seats, overstuffed cloth cushions, occasional rips, shockingly white where batting protrudes, a row of thin clerestory windows, stained glass panes leaded into the double tiered ceiling. You might've stepped straight back into the past; late Victorian or Roaring Twenties.

Somehow though, the features of anybody riding in those seats is lost. Either to dusk or simply, the tendrils of pea soup thick, London fog remembrance.

And the final destination is always the same, no matter when or where they disembark. It begins and ends at that depot. . . just beyond your shuttered eyes.

~ G.A. Scheinoha lives in the country where he was born and raised in a typical, blue collar working family. When not laboring as a warehouse packager or caring for an aged parent, he pursues a third, more public life as an author. His prose poems, plays, short stories, verse, reviews and commentary/opinions have appeared in newspapers, magazines and websites in Australia, Canada, England and all across the U.S.

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