Flash Fiction Contest 2006
Honorable Mention
Commuter
Aline Soules

A woman gasps, gripped by a mild heart attack on the train on the way to work, but it looks as if she’s fallen asleep. The train rocks back and forth, from side to side, as it rumbles from suburbia, rattles past her stop, and plunges into the bowels of the city. The subway lights flicker rhythmically in front of her closed eyes. She slips sideways onto the seat, her head resting on her arm.

People come and go as the train reaches its destination and turns around again. The morning passes intermittently overhead, shining on her in the outer burbs, meaningless in the fluorescent glimmer of the city tunnels. The woman shakes back and forth, forth and back, as people come and go and come again all morning long.

At noon, she still lies across the seat. Commuters have long since left the train and only a few housewives, retired people, and tourists are scattered among the empty seats. They keep out of her way. She might be on drugs or ill or just sleeping. It’s none of their business, so they pick seats as far from her as they can. Young mothers with small children keep them close, lifting them on to their laps and talking in soft voices. It wouldn’t be good to disturb the strange woman.

At mid-day, there are fewer people, freeing space that allows the woman’s body to sprawl across two seats. By now, she is half awake and half asleep, but unable to move her limbs or speak clearly. She tries to ask for help, but all that comes out are guttural grunts, and people move even further away. By now, the sun is higher and hotter, so that when she is above ground, it blinds her through the window and heats the compartment. She feels as if she is melting into the seat. She is glad when the train rumbles underground.

Most of the afternoon, she is alone. She sleeps and wakes, alternately hot and cold. At evening rush hour, as more people come on board, they want her to move. Yet, there is something scary about her inert body, so they grumble under their breaths. They move around her or ignore her or move to another carriage. Eventually, one man wants to sit down so badly that he pushes her body out of the way. Once he has done that, another person joins him on the adjacent seat. Her body eases into the crack between seat and back. As the man gets off and another person sits in his place, her body shifts deeper and her left arm slips through the crack to rest under the seat. It is cradled by the material that is taut against the underside of the cushion.

When rush hour ends, her body is cocooned. The few evening riders either don’t notice the wisp of sleeve that is still not tucked in or, if they do, they think it’s a torn piece of cloth from the garment of an earlier traveler. By the time the last person leaves, even that wisp is interred and the train hurtles on, its seemingly empty interior brightly lit against the night sky.

 

Author’s Note

Aline Soules' work has appeared in journals, e-zines, and anthologies such as The MacGuffin, 100 Words, The Beat (UK), Literature of the Expanding Frontier, and Variations on the Ordinary. The Size of the World, a "flip" book of poetry and short fiction, was co-published with Nancy Ryan's The Shape of the Heart. Prose poems from Soules' manuscript Meditation on Woman have appeared in Kaleidowhirl, Tattoo Highway, Edifice Wrecked, Poetry Midwest, Binnacle, Long Story Short, the Kenyon Review, and the Newport Review.