The Green Line On Thursday Night

Words: 181

Tikatakatikatakatikataka.

The elderly woman by the door in knitting. Her liver spotted fingers flash under the dark purple yarn. A grinding shriek rattles up from the floor boards as the subway car scrambles around a bend in the track.

Jugjuujuujugjuujuubingbingbing.

Music blares from the pimply teenager in the corner. His headphones are crammed so deeply into his to-large ears it's a wonder his brain isn't scratched. He bobs his head in time to his music, and tosses a brightly colored ball from hand to hand.

"OooooOOOOOOoooooooOOOOOOH!"

There is a man on the far end of the car, wrapped in newspapers and dirty clothes. He is encased in his own filthy cocoon, and croons endlessly as he pets the dead cat in his lap. The train skitters to a halt, screaming indignantly into the station. Thin, water-colored light spills in through the grimy windows. The doors open with a fierce hiss.

No one gets off. No one gets on.

The doors close, snapping at imagined fingers.

The train lunges off into the darkness again, a vicious beast sulking in a stony den.