The quiet carriage

An original fictional sample story.

I had three hours to myself and a list that would have filled six. The list included buying school socks, returning a parcel, finding a birthday present, and sitting somewhere quiet. I had written the last item so small that it looked like a footnote.

My sister was with the children. She had brought ingredients for pizza and the sort of confidence that comes from visiting a household for an afternoon instead of running it indefinitely. “Go,” she said. “We know where the cups are.” I left before I could explain the dishwasher.

At the station, I watched my train pull away while the ticket machine was still considering my card. The next one was twenty-two minutes later. I stood beneath the departure board and began rearranging the list. Socks first, parcel second. A shorter route between shops. Tea to take away rather than drink sitting down.

Then I noticed the bench. It faced an unremarkable strip of trees behind the opposite platform, and it was empty. I sat. There was a book in my bag that had accompanied me on several journeys without being opened. I took it out and discovered that my bookmark was a receipt for children's toothpaste.

For the first few pages, I kept lifting my head. Nobody needed anything. A person in a red coat crossed the bridge. Somewhere, someone wheeled a suitcase over the paving joints. I read the same paragraph twice, then finally carried its meaning into the next one.

When the train arrived, I got on. At my planned stop, I looked through the window at the shopping centre and remained seated. My ticket was valid one stop farther, where there was a small park and a café I remembered from before I measured outings by their useful outcomes. I did not have to go there. That was partly why I wanted to.

I drank a cup of tea while it was hot. I read twenty-seven pages. I watched a dog politely fail to understand a fountain. On the journey home, I bought the birthday present online and moved the other errands to Monday. Nothing terrible happened to the list.

The kitchen smelled of warm dough when I returned. My youngest had flour in one eyebrow. My sister asked whether I had got everything done. I thought about the empty bench, the dog, and the toothpaste receipt now holding a different page. “One thing,” I said. Then I took off my coat and asked for a slice.

Illustrative photograph for an original fictional story. Photo: Christian Lue / Unsplash.