“Hi, my name is Daisy, we’ve been sitting next to each other for the past ten minutes, and we’ll probably be stuck next to each other for a while”

“Shut up”

“What?”

“Shut up, I’m listening to music on my AirPods”

“Oh, well I’d like to be friends”

“Bro shut up now’s not the time”

“I was just trying to be nice”

“I’m an introvert and I’m listening to music, shut up before I throw you across the room”

“Well I’m here to talk to you if you want-“

“BRO YOU JUST MADE ME MISS THE BEAT DROP”

“Come here often?”

"Only when I buy a train ticket," I said.

"Aw come now, where's the fun in that?"

"Mmmm, you're right," I said, now more aware of the beard floating right in front of me. "I'm new at this whole commute thing. I guess you could say I'm in TRAINing."

"You must be HM," the beard beamed with a gentlemanly tilt.

"Who's asking?"

"MJ."

"MJ?" I scoffed. I gestured for him and his golden wizard cap to take a seat across from me. He "sat" to my left and beamed even harder. I frowned and cocked my head. I switched seats to face him.

"Pardon my accuracy," I said, "but you seem a little...err...tall...to be a Mary Jane."

"It's, Making Jargon."

"Oh." My eyes bugged while I took a stalling sip of train water with a hint of lemon. Not bad.

"Like 'Has Moxie' is all that creative," came MJ's dark laugh.

I brightened. "You have me pegged, fellow traveler," I said. I reached out a hand, confused as to what I might shake in greeting. The beard bent his hat to meet my hand. Glittery dust blanketed my palm. Felt strange to actually make contact instead of my hand slipping right through.

"So," I said, "you're just as fake as me, huh?"

"I prefer the word 'invented,'" said MJ. "Lamps were invented, phones, computers... why, even trains were invented! Not all that is fabricated is fake."

"Cool it, Major Jellybean," I said, now chewing on the ice from my drink. "Don't be one of those people."

Ol' "copper whiskers" adjusted his hat. "Those people?" he said. "You mean, imaginary?"

I pursed my lips and nodded. I decided to change the subject. "Hey, uh... listen, Moldy Jaguar," I said, "I've got a weird question for you."

"Weirder than a wizard beard and a horned maiden chatting on a westbound train?"

"Somehow, yes," I chuckled. "Here goes. Are you a fan of chaos? I believe I see a devilish glint in you."

"How kind of you to notice!" said MJ. "Every good story needs a least a little chaos, right? You stir the pot to keep the meal from burning."

"Delightful," I said. "Delicious, even!"

I leaned toward the aisle and searched for my maker. Such eclectic heads dotted the rows of leather benches before me. From top hats to beanies, this train really had it all. Tilda was easy enough to spot, though. She was struggling to master the "messy bun" updo while refraining from stabbing the woman next to her with her toothpick elbows.

I pointed and said, "You see that raven-haired fret-face over there?"

MJ nodded.

"That's the 'meal' I'm designed to, uh.... stir, as you put it. Which one's yours?"

The beard floated up just above the chair and pointed with his thick mustache.

I gasped. "Is that Delores?? THE Delores? The world-renowned author who wrote that earth-shattering quadrilogy, Turnip the Volume?? THAT'S your maker?"

"And that," said MJ while drifting back to his chair, "is why I'm awesome." He twirled and caught his cap for added effect.

I leaned back in my chair. "Well, Making Jargon, what say you - does Delores need some... stirring these days?"

"Always."

"It's settled then. We'll have plenty to keep us busy at this writer's retreat. Delores is headed there too, right?"

"Right."

I scratched a horn and watched as autumnal colors whizzed by the window.

"I have another question," I said, breaking our five-minute silence.

"I'm a wizard," said MJ.

"Pardon?"

"You're wondering how I knew your name before meeting you, right? I have magical abilities even beyond 'imagine magic.'"

I furrowed a brow. "Imagine magic?"

"That stuff that all Imaginaries can do. You know, like being heard by writers, floating through walls, sensing other Imaginaries nearby..."

"WHAT?"

"Appearing in dreams, world building, having perfect pitch..."

"Tilda always has envied my singing chops."

"Is that all you do with your magic? Sing at your maker?"

I rubbed the back of my neck. "I only just discovered I could talk to writers about a week ago."

"You have much to learn, kiddo," said MJ. "Lesson number 1 - always step out of a dream sideways..."

“If someone says they believe in something, does that mean they think it’s right, or that it’s real?”

I looked up from my magazine. “What?”

“Well, I think it’s a fair question.”

The man seated beside me had just spoken. He was older, probably middle aged, with big owl-eyed glasses and a brown plaid suit. I didn’t understand why this stranger was talking to me, let alone asking me philosophical questions.

Still, I considered his query. “It definitely depends,” I said. “But probably real unless you add a verb.”

He crossed his legs, as if allowing me to continue.

“Let’s say I believe in God,” I explained. “Obviously, I am telling you I think God exists. But, let’s say I believe in worshipping God. Then I am telling you I think worshipping God is right.”

He considered this. “Alright. Let’s say I believe in train rides.”

“Uh huh.”

“I would be telling you I don’t think train rides exist,” he relayed. “But if I said, I believe in taking train rides… then I’d be telling you I think trains are worth riding.”

“Precisely.”

“Huh.”

I looked down at my magazine, drumming on it. After a minute I spoke again. “I don’t think it applies to people, though.”

“Hm?” he asked.

“Let’s say I believe in you. Or I believe in any living thing, really. Then I’d be giving encouragement to that living thing, to keep going. To keep trying. To keep living.”

“Ah,” he said. “So saying you don’t believe in someone doesn’t necessarily mean you’re doubting their existence. You’re just doubting their abilities.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“Ah.” He paused, smiling oddly. “Do you believe in me?”

“Hm,” I replied. “That depends. I haven’t learned much about you, so I can’t speak for your abilities. But if I’m speaking for your existence, well, then I’m sure I believe in you.”

He looked at me. “So you’re sure I’m real? Not a figment of your imagination?”

“Well, sure. I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

I returned to my magazine. What a strange man I just met, I thought. You meet the strangest people on trains.

I read my magazine for a while, quietly flipping through the pages. I sipped my coffee. I ate a scone. I coughed a bit. After a good time of that, I hadn’t heard a sound from the man next to me, and wondered if he had fallen asleep. I glanced over at where he had been sitting, but— he was gone.

I went to the toilet to see if he was in there. Gone.

I checked the dining car, sleeping car, a few other compartments. Gone.

I checked everywhere. Gone, gone, gone. No sight of him.

Later, as I was leaving, I asked the train conductor about the man. I described his features, his seat number, his persona. The conductor didn’t remember ever letting him on. In fact, he never remembered ever speaking to a man like that at all.

I swear I felt a little whisper on my neck as I got off. Something about doubting someone’s existence.

You meet the strangest people on trains.

I glanced away from the magazine I was reading for just a moment to rest my eyes. I closed and opened them again. I could talk to the lady who was sitting next to me instead of napping. “Hi. What do you think of the ride? Wish I had more leg room.” She said,”I’d get up and walk around once and a while. You could get a blood clot,” “Thanks for the advice, I hurt from sitting so long. What about you?” “I meditate and do relaxation when I’m traveling. I also stay hydrated.” “I like to look out the window,” I replied. “Yes, the scenery is nice. I’m an artist, so I notice those kind of countrysides and houses.” “I’m a photographer. That’s the reason for this trip.
“I’m reuniting with family. Now that the pandemic isn’t quite so bad, I thought I would go see my parents before they die.” “What happened?” I asked. “We had a falling out, but I realize I was the problem. I need their forgiveness.” “Are you nervous? I feel nervous for you,” “I am not at ease, but I’m relieved I’m on my way. I’m committed now.”

If I knew this was going to happen, I would brake up with her sooner. I would run away and leave her for good. But she dragged me into this, and now I’m on this train, riding to my own death.

“So, what did you do?” The guy sitting next to me asked. He was big and bulky but the glow in his eyes told me he wasn’t a bad person. The train rattled a couple of times before he spoke again. “I’ll be honest, you look too skinny and frightened to have done a crime. So I’m asking, what did you do?”

“I am-“ I gripped my shirt in my sweaty palms. “I’m innocent.”

“Then why are you here?”

“It’s not my fault…I’m innocent.”

He looked at me in confusion. “Well, whatever you say. But before you get executed -and if you really are innocent- I suggest you state that you’re not guilty to them. Unless you want your head chopped off your shoulders.”

“Yeah…” I swallowed the knot in my throat in fear.

The platform was crowded as it was every morning with hundreds of commuters jostling to catch their connection into the city. Damien clutched his man bag to his chest , inching his way forward to the platform edge so he could be one of the first to get on board.

The train arrived, doors slid open and a battle for seats commenced. He was lucky and found a single seat opposite a bowler hatted gentleman, engrossed in his morning newspaper. Damien was heading for the city and an interview for a new job. Excited and eager to get on with this new adventure, he flumped down in his seat and with a sigh said to his fellow passenger

“Gee it’s a fight to get on and get a seat, isn’t it…!”

There was no response. The bowler hat and newspaper didn’t move an inch. Maybe he hadn’t heard, so Damien said again

“I said it’s a fight getting on the trains in the morning isn’t it?”

The newspaper moved slightly and a pair of gold rim spectacles peered at him over the top of “The Times” front page. Bowler hat man - as Damien had now christened his companion - glowered at him, said nothing and with a brisk shake of the newspaper, returned to his reading.

“Hmmm…obviously not a morning person…” mused Damien. Nothing was going to dampen his spirit this morning. A new job in the heart of the city was a huge step forward, he was delighted and proud of himself for getting it.

“Tickets from Oxford please…” a buxom woman in a railway uniform with buttons straining hard to stay closed, came bustling through the carriage. Damien greeted her with a smile and handed over his ticket. Her bright red lipstick smile accentuated a mouthful of almost too perfect, bright, white teeth.

“Thanks my darling…” she handed back the ticket and bustled on down the train.

Bowler hat man moved not an inch.

The carriage full of people was surprisingly quiet as the train gathered speed. Images of red brick houses morphing into trees and fields slid silently past the window. Damien pulled a well worn paperback from the front pocket of his man bag and slid further down in the seat. He was soon lost in the story and oblivious to his surroundings. Only the recognisable sound of bottles clinking together broke his concentration, as the refreshments trolley came through the carriage.

“Teas and coffees anyone?” A cheery voice and the rattle of loose change being scraped from the cash drawer prompted Damien to search is his pocket for some money, requesting

“White coffee with milk and sugar please…”

Suddenly, to his astonishment a voice came from behind “The Times” the newspaper. A very much “Queen’s english” accent said gruffly.

“Black…no sugar please…”

Clutching his cardboard coffee cup with both hands, Damien watched as his travelling companion was finally revealed. Placing “The Times” carefully on his knees, bowler hat man pulled a tiny, leather purse from the inside pocket of his black pinstripe suit jacket and handed over the payment. Returning purse to pocket, he took his coffee from the attendant and proceeded to stare out of the window. From behind the rim of his coffee cup, Damien observed the man with interest. Pinstripe suit, bowler hat, gold rimmed spectacles and…what was this…atop the pinstripe waistcoat was a full colour Mickey Mouse tie, it’s perfect knot framed beautifully by the collar of a sky blue shirt. Damien could not hide his amazement. Bowler hat man had a personality after all! With a slight laugh in his voice he immediately said

“Man, that’s one great tie you’re wearing!”

Bowler hat man turned from the window to look straight at Damien and with a cold, emotionless expression said

“Young man, my tie is my business and not for general discussion…”

With that he placed his empty coffee cup on the floor, picked up his newspaper, opening it wide with a flourish and disappeared behind it once more.

Damien’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. Shaking his head in disbelief at this rude retort, he wondered why the man was so unwilling to make simple conversation. Was this what a lifetime of daily commute and work in the city did to you? Returning to his paperback he began to think again about this new job adventure and vowed to consider carefully, should he be offered the position, was it what he really wanted?

As the train move it became increasingly clear.the abnormality of the journey I’ve taken no ticket no invite just blackout I can’t even remember the day before everything,became a blur.

After collecting myself I became aware of my situation I was in the passenger compartment of a train

Soft leather seats lined the boxcar as far as the eyes could travel eying the place the door stood to be greeted by a swirling black void and a plac on the wall next to it.

Turning around gave the same view

Solid black and burgundy curtains covers the window along the boxcar.

No sign of life besides me hurrying to my feet.curiosity took over me as I approached one of the windows .the curtains soft to the touch moved easily.

revealing an sun set and the void of space almost pitch black save for hundreds of small lights

Suddenly a intercom burst in to life

All passengers are aboard we’ll now commence the engine start up sequence a cold robotic voice rang out

Now passengers if you look to the two swirling voids to your immediate left and right door way I can assure you will not harm you it just changes the boxcar your will be standing it

Purely safe and sound except for one thing your pass if your pass is not one u as you enter the void all bets are off find your pass now it should be on your person

After a quick and frantic pat down i pulled it out no bigger than a credit card and a hard cold metal laying it in his palm as he observed it a small hole dug in one side

Two metal pieces began to work there way out slowly at first before speeding up locking the card to his palm

Now that the pass is tightly secured there’s no need to worry the intercom began

You may come and go now we do hope you both enjoy your travel time goodbye before fading out

That left him with his thoughts after debating with himself for what felt like hours he built up the courage. To approach the left void

Muttering a small prayer before entering it

Again a boxcar but a-subway train as if he stepped it to a morning commute

But that’s not what drew his eye far in the fronted the subway was a woman

Her piercing eyes stared into mine and mine hers

After a few long seconds I ventured a question

Hi…

The word hung in the air for several moments

Her glare softened but forward before saying

Hi…

1944, Somewhere in Poland

The train car’s methodical swaying has become a second heart beat to me. The air is thick with panic and the stench of our pail for a bathroom. My hair and clothing are writhing with lice, but I don’t bother to try and pick at them any more. You could hear the muffled sound of war outside of our car, like a TV turned on in another room. Every child in this room has heard the stories about the horrid concentration camps. That was our final destination. This is the train ride to hell.

Suddenly, the girl next to me lets out a scream and jolts out of her restless sleep. I can see her eyes glisten through the dim light, her cheeks damp with tears. I haven’t met her in my life, but that doesn’t make me any less sincere when I grab her hand and give a reassuring squeeze. She whimpers but graciously accepts my gesture.

“My name is Lidiya. What is yours?” I croak in Ukrainian, my voice hoarse from disuse. “Nina.” “Where are you from?” “Kyiv,” she answers before starting to sob. Her shoulders shake uncontrollably against my body. “I miss home.” A girl across our boxcar starts to cry, creating a chain of moans and wails. I hear the girl next to me start to weep. I turn to her. “What’s your name?” She sniffles before replying, “Vira. From Lviv. I miss my Mama.” A boy sitting against the other wall pipes up. “I’m Andriy. I miss my friends and my home.”

And soon, the crying stopped. We each took turns saying our names and what we miss most, some making us ache in remembrance. But this gave us children hope, a spark in our despairing bodies. Whether it was a person, a place, or a toy, it gave us something to fight for. And that was all we needed to survive the long war ahead of us.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

“My head is killing me, what happened?”

“You got cracked pretty good in the head. A blow like that would’ve killed a regular man. You must have a pretty thick skull.”

“Where are we?”

“On a train, can’t you tell?”

“I’ve never been on a train before. Where are we going?”

“There’s a chance you’ll never ride another train after this one. You know where we’re heading.”

“I don’t belong here! I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, I’m not like the rest of you!”

“None of us belong here, friend. But here we are.”

“I can reason with them. If I can just explain myself and who I am, then they’ll let me go.”

“It seems I was right about your thick skull. You can beg, plead, and pray all you want. Your words will fall on deaf ears. There’s no reasoning with these devils. Just keep your head down and do as you’re told.”

The train grinds to a stop and the door flys open. The men are greeted by a dozen armed soldiers.

“Welcome to Auschwitz.”

The baby’s cries seemed to shake in unison with the train coach as it sped along the rail tracks at high-speed. The mother tried to pacify the baby but the strange new environment was sending shivers through the baby and it refused to calm. The mother was lucky to be in a special priority carriage room and so it was just her and her baby and that suited her just fine. In truth, the train conductor saw that the baby was crying and put her away from all the other passengers. However, this isolation was to be disrupted.

The door opened and the train conductor glanced over to the crying baby.

“Sorry ma’am, another passenger.” He said.

The mother couldn’t tell who he was apologising to. He left as quickly as he could. The other passenger was an elderly lady, all dressed in black. She sat down, lightly placed her bottom onto the bench seat opposite the mother. The baby momentarily paused upon seeing the new guest.

“Looks like we’re in this for the long haul.” The mother said. The lady nodded looking distantly at the baby. She wasn’t quite present.

“She’s only a week old.” The mother continued, wondering whether this small talk was worth the investment. Again the lady nodded.

Suddenly, the baby resumed the baby-song and both women flinched at the piercing noise. The lady stared more intently at the baby and tears began to drop.

“He died last week.” Those were her first words. “My husband...”

The mother glared with awkward sympathy. She had brought life into the world and the lady opposite her has lost life from the world. It was something of irony surely that they would be paired in this carriage train.

“I’m so sorry to hear.” The mother sympathised. The lady dabbed a white cloth to her eyes and seemed to be nodding in agreement or in the motion of crying.

“He was killed on the field. I’m going to see his body.” The lady spluttered between sobs.

This struck a note for the mother. She was on her way to see her husband, who was also a soldier in the war. She fretted to think that he may share the same fate.

“Your baby... is beautiful.” The lady seemed to regain some control. “It would be such a thing for God to take my husband away and give life to your baby. May I hold...?”

“Her. And yes of course.” The mother came across to the lady and carefully placed her baby into the lady’s frail arms. The baby stopped crying and for once on this journey, she smiled. The lady smiled. And seeing that both baby and this lady were now smiling when just a moment ago, they weren’t brought a smile to her face too.