第一话

– The Last Train From Boston

The night was chilly and damp as the train rattled its way along. There were no passengers on this particular trip except for a few older gentlemen that kept hunching themselves in their seats to try to warm themselves up against the cold. Most of them wore large woolen coats with mufflers attached, though one old fellow wore a black leather suit jacket that had been worn through at the elbows. This man wore his dark glasses and long hair combed back into a slick ponytail. He sat across from another man dressed much more stylishly than himself – though not in an expensive fashion. He carried a thick book under his arm. The book's author held onto it rather tightly, however, as if fearful it would float away.

In fact, the book was a journal. It wasn't just about the trip itself - no, he wrote about what it was like being away from home. Every night, he wrote about everything he saw – every town, village and city, the sights and smells and sounds of civilization. Each night, he'd write until the next morning came around and the next journal entry could begin again. His handwriting wasn’t neat and tidy either. No, his writings seemed to be jumbled messes written by a child who'd learned how to make cursive by rubbing it together. His notes looked almost illegible when he finally finished writing, but there wasn't anything else left to do now. He put the journal aside on the seat beside him and closed his eyes for a minute. He opened them and saw a young boy sitting opposite him. He was a skinny little thing, probably only five or six years old. He sat cross legged and fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. “What do you want?” asked the man. He didn’t sound angry, just irritated. The boy gave a shrug. “Just passing the time. You don’t have to get all snippy because of me.” “Well I have to get some sleep now so shush!” The man shut his eyes and pulled his coat around him tighter. The train rumbled and shook violently.