Sliding Scene ONE
Fiction
It was a layer of asphalt beside a train track. You'd hesitate to call it a "railway station" if it wasn't for the congregation — so dogmatic they might as well colour it orange as they waited for the train at 7. Nothing has changed since the station's colonial origins except a new sign, its green luminance toned down by the misty rain. It displayed "MANIM" on both sides.
The land was wet on either side and between the vines and veins of a dead dog, Kymir — 16 — was following a robust man of 27. His name was Kael. Worked as a day labourer. Was looking for a place where they didn't see skin. They too came for the train. There were multiple notices to restrict riding on the roofs, but the freight trains still slowed down at stations where no other trains did. Slim ladders were erected between compartments, Kael went in first and then Kymir followed. Many men went up, and two women. No dialogues.
Kymir balanced himself near the centre, the sides were polished — initially to a shine but had worn down to a heart-wrenching bleakness. He sat and felt the water seeping through his pants. The rain was slow but had coated everything with water. He saw a red slime close to where he sat, might have been betel nut juice, might have been clotted blood or rust mixing in the rain.
The train moved to a scream. It had the guttural shrillness that a loose-skinned neck has. It was of a lady who rolled a single strip of white fabric around her. The scream was over as it came. And a spark of gossip ran along the roof. She was dead in two pieces. Her blood slipped out like the dog. The red wounds showed the pink flesh under the raindrops ever so often. Kymir stared till the train dragged it out of view. He gazed at Kael who was unaffected, perhaps stuck at admiring a white glow between dark clouds. Kymir moved his eyes to the body again but it was too distant to see anything but a white bag. A thing that appeared to lift but slammed itself down. He pulled Kael's bag closer, the only luggage they had.
And suddenly the world felt empty for Kymir; there was nothing to think — everything was done. He was way too far to return home, closer to death than his low-speaking mother who might have just woken up, searching for him in every where there was. The absent wind 12 feet below was hitting his nerves. Crippling them to shapes. They made him see men with empty eye sockets standing still while the train was moving. They floated on the land that rushed backwards. Those figures went distant and dissolved into Kael — a converted Christian who had lost faith — sitting then at the far end of the train. "When did he go?" thought Kymir.
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