“Last Train”
written by: Jean Akintoye
I don’t quite know how long I’ve waited here.
How long I’ve slumped upon this bench.
No back for support.
The seat subsumed with rust,
Flavourless and crisp,
Crumbling fangs sinking into what little soul they can salvage.
Too much water,
Too much air,
Too little light.
Great grey clouds hang above my eyes,
Like black iron battleships,
Or some faceless fish from the maw of Iblis,
With leather for skin
And Claymores for fins.
With no eyes, they shed no tears for me
So no rain to help me see.
But a glacial wind swoops upon my shoulders
Like a hell-bird’s talons
Or a decrepit angel’s solitary wing,
Shaking me awake,
And reminding me why I’m here.
A black ocean mires the station.
Opaque and unknowable as shadow-kissed lead,
The water’s edge caressing,
Stroking,
Eroding.
So it hangs on for dear life,
A last remaining arm,
Melded of plastic and steel
Supporting a sign, lights flickering, vanishing.
Cordially reminding me,
That the “Last Train to the Primrose Way” will arrive in five minutes.
Five minutes.
Five… minutes?
Hah.
There’s something funny about that.
I laugh.
A man approaches.
At least I think that’s what he was.
His arms folded behind his back,
In a bastardisation of some ancient uniform.
His face unseeable, but I suspect mangled.
I don’t see his mouth, but I hear him say
“Your ticket, please.”
My eyes widen.
I tell him no. I’ve got no ticket to show.
He repeats himself.
And I repeat, no. I’ve nothing to give him.
Nothing to declare.
Nothing to prove.
Nothing.
But I’m lying, of course.
And he knows this.
He knocks me to the floor.
He pins me with one hand.
He won’t say it a third time.
I want to fight back.
I want to scream; I want to shout.
I want to rip his hair, kick his jaw in, spit in his eyes, shatter his nose, scatter his teeth-
But I only watch in horror as his hand dives into my pocket
As an orca to its prey,
And pulls out a shred of card with illegible text.
He laughs,
I think,
And tries to look me in the eye as I avoid his gaze,
As the next train, the last train,
Its journey all but finished,
Pulls up at the platform, billowing silver smog and
pungent steam.
The man cackling,
The water whispering,
The doors opening.
- “Last Train” - November 20, 2025
