Train B-7

“Because he is a dumbass.” The construction worker, fit to be in the Spartan army, cursed.

The nosey crowd listens in on the heated conversation that is taking place on the train tracks.

The bird-lady convinced a teenage girl to stop taking a video and call the police. The only other noises that can be heard over the yelling is now the blaring of sirens.

The snooping mob squishes closer to the end of the waiting station’s concrete ledge, trying to hear the commotion down below. High heels and dress shoes are well over the yellow warning paint with the bold red letters advising to STAY BACK.

From below, “You get on that train, it’s over for good! Do you get that More? You and I are both over! What I created is over. You’ll destroy me too. Don’t you get that? No, no Morrison, don’t you step on that track. We have to agree on this!” He screamed. Greenish-blue veins palpated from the side of his neck as if to emphasize what he was saying. He needed to convince Morrison to stay put when the train came.

The crowd moved in even closer trying to figure out what would happen next. The screeching sirens grew even louder as eight o’clock ticked into existence. From the distance of the dark tunnel, speeding wheels could be heard howling. Faces with an expression of puzzlement etched most of the gathering. The assembly of travelers watched the argument carry on, as it began to boil.





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