Friday Flash: Night Train by Sven Walther

The night train reflected the moonlight as it slithered through the landscape, a steel serpent whose dim lights flickered with every jolt. Passengers were nodding off--or pretending to--faces half-lit in the eerie blue glow. 

The rail car was silent. The man in the trench coat hadn’t moved in hours. Across from him, Lily clutched her tattered book tighter. It was the kind of book you bring to feel safe but never actually read. 

The conductor hadn’t come through in some time. 

Outside, the trees blurred past, shadows dancing like a ghost parade. Inside, the man suddenly stood. Slowly. Deliberately. The coat unfurled like wings as he reached into his pocket. 

Lily’s breath hitched. What’s happening? Was this it? Her parents would whisper this story to each other over dinner—poor girl, always so polite—

The man reached into his inner pocket. 

She froze. Unable to move. Unable to scream. She just stared, eyes widening. 

His other hand reached into another pouch, hidden beneath his dark cloak. What evil awaited her? 

The knife glinted in the dim light, flashing in his hungry eyes. 

He flicked the knife in her direction. 

There was nothing she could do now. 

His other hand slid something onto the table, but she couldn’t pull her eyes from his. 

"You want half? It's turkey and Swiss." The knife—now clearly a butter knife—sliced cleanly through a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. 

Lily blinked. The monsters in her imagination deflated like punctured balloons, leaving only the mundane reality of a late-night train ride and a stranger's unexpected kindness.

(photo credit: Julia Kadel)