FINALLY THE TRAIN ARRIVES IN HELL (STINK) - CREATIVE WRITING EXCERCISE 4TH YEAR

 THE FUTURE IN THE DYING STINK

He must be dead. This time. 

Yes, undeniably, he must be dead. And he is in Hell. Obviously, he must be in Hell because it smells just like the train to Rebuilt. Nothing can be worse than sitting on the train to Rebuilt, smelling the grotesque mingling of alcohol, fear, sweat, blood, and rot. Nothing... except being in Rebuilt itself.

He drinks in the hopelessness that hangs in the air like a thick fog. He sees the twisted buildings and the massive lumps of rotting flesh that hang from the windows and door frames. Yes this is Hell. He groans heavily; some of the passengers, seeing Rebuilt for the first time, vomit and scream all manner of incredulous things at the same time. 

Not he. Someone has ordered him to be here, or else he wouldn't have suddenly woke on this third class passenger bench. He's lost count of how many times he has passed this way before.

"Final stop!" the automated train voice crackles through the ancient PA. The train screeches and wails into a final stop inside the Rebuilt station. Dogs with too many teeth await wealthier, healthier prey than he. Diviners wait with their herbs, onions and entrails roasting on open charcoal fires. All the ladies, dressed in black, hawk dubious fortunes.

He doesn't want to leave the train because it means that he will have to be out there. But the train voice comes on, barking at him. "Clear the damn train. Talkin’ to you, Charon!"

He knew it was coming. He's heard it every time he's ridden this train. He's been spotted.

He opens the door and steps down onto the platform. He sees the dogs, fetid with the stench of their latest kills. They are sniffing out their next meal.

He spies the Diviners mumbling out fortunes, read from inside the cloud of the smoke over the smoldering onions. He sees self-important men stalking the streets, uncowed by the blood smell and scenes of recent death.

He goes to the nearest Diviner. Good fortune is rare and fleeting in Rebuilt. He takes what he can get.

"Bless me with good fortune," he whispers to her. She's young, with crinkly red hair and freckles crowding her cheeks.

She says nothing, takes the herbs she's burning, and rubs them on his forearms. He offers her three leaves of yarrow he had been keeping in his pocket. She wordlessly refuses the payment he offers.

"Sorry," he says. "This place is a dying stink." She nods. She laughs. She tells him what he didn't want to hear.

 

STEPHEN WEIR 2022/2023 Illustration by sweir /Dall-E.