Runaway Train - A Short Story

Last week my writers group meeting ended with an assignment: a 500-word story that must contain three elements - a bowl of goldfish, a man in black and a train.

I love writing prompts; it's so interesting to see how a group of people interpret the idea-generating keywords individually in each of their stories. Take a look at the blog list on the right to see what the other members of Writers by the Woods came up with.

Here is my take on the assignment:

Runaway Train
By Kristen Berry

It had been another hasty escape, which was why I found myself on the last train out of Chicago with a fishbowl on my lap. It had been frighteningly easy to smuggle it onboard, with only a trench coat thrown on top. Each time the train veered, water splashed against the fabric, soaking it with murky, fishy water. I repeatedly lifted the coat to make sure Coltrane hadn’t flopped to the floor. I’d left Jeremy a thousand times before, but I’d shown him that I was serious this time; I’d taken the fish with me.

“Is that a goldfish in your lap?” The man across the aisle asked, amused.

“No,” I replied briskly. But when he continued eyeing the odd bulge under the coat, I sighed and unveiled it.

“What’s his name?” The man asked. He was a generically handsome business traveler. He smiled at me the way the guys at the diners I worked at often did, like they thought if they tipped me enough I might go home with them.

“Coltrane,” I said.

“Odd name for a fish. How’d you come to that?”

“It’s the only thing we had in common. Jazz.”

“You and who?”

“Me and the man I’m leaving.”

The man nodded, as if this made perfect sense.

“Going to Ann Arbor?”

“Detroit.”

“You should stop with me in Ann Arbor for dinner. I know a great place.”

“It’ll be two in the morning when we get there.”

The man smiled. “I’ll take you to the train station in the morning.” He said this like I should’ve jumped at the chance, as if a woman like me should’ve been flattered instead of insulted.

I sighed and tapped a fingernail against the fishbowl. Coltrane came immediately to me, his mouth opening and closing in a silent warning.

“So this man of yours,” the man said, “why are you leaving him?”

“He’s a friend of Tina.”

“What?”

“A meth head. He’s a meth head.”

“Oh,” the man replied. I’d hoped this revelation would disgust him, but he only seemed more intrigued. “What’s your addiction?” he asked.

“Assholes, apparently.” I re-covered Coltrane with the coat and turned to the darkness passing outside my window.

My mother would’ve been thrilled if I showed up back in town with a man like that. She didn’t realize that assholes came in all kinds. Sometimes they were hopeless stoners like Jeremy who wore caution signs on their foreheads, but they could also be like this guy, professional types in $300 shoes who asked you to bed before asking your name. The train was speeding toward a thousand I-told-you-sos, but I didn’t care; at least I’d be away from him.

But when the train reached the station, Jeremy was standing there, waiting for me. He must have pushed the old Lincoln like hell to beat the train. My traitorous heart was happy to see him, but he was dressed all in black, like a bad omen.