Harold gripped his laptop bag, lowered his head and charged through the mob. He did this every evening, Monday to Friday, through the concourse of the London terminus to catch his train.
He wasn’t the only one in this open combat, but still he was vastly alone.
After his forty-minute journey he would find an indifferent wife, and two nearly-adult daughters, waiting to nibble away more of his frazzled soul. All he could do was flop in a chair, eat dinner, watch tv, go to bed and then wake to repeat the whole cycle again.
Lately, he had been dreaming of his childhood, when he lived in a small village in a pretty valley set among rolling hills. When he was ten-years-old he wanted to work in the village store. How Harold would love to do that now.
One hot, stifling day Harold caught his regular train; he was so tired that he fell asleep. He was about to miss his stop when a Tannoy announcement woke him. Bleary eyed and disorientated, he threw himself from his seat. As he stepped onto the platform he had a strange sensation: a friendly porter greeted him. He left the station but not into the streets of his bleak commuter town, instead he saw acres of bright flowers and across the street the village store. The grin on Harold’s face was too big for his face.
At home, his wife watched the television indifferently: ‘Breaking news: Train crash near London, many feared dead.’
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 