Fiction

I once wanted to write a short story about being on a night train that never quite reaches its destination.

There would’ve been only the three of us sitting on that train: me, a half-drunken scouser from Kirkby and a ginger lad who is a sound engineer on an evening show at a radio station in Manchester.

The scouse bloke would try to pitch his idea of a tv channel that would show classic slapstick 24 hours a day. Every ten minutes he’d stop for breath and to answer his girlfriend’s anxious phone calls, whom he had promised to visit but he got drunk in the afternoon instead and could only catch the last train.

She’d keep asking him where the train was and he’d keep asking us.

‘Todmorden’, would the ginger lad answer once.
‘What?’
‘Todmorden.’
‘I can’t fucking pronounce that, you tell her.’, the unnamed scouser would say.

And so on.

And we would’ve been there forever, and dawn would never come.

It’s not much of a story, to be fair.

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