Yard Sale of Thoughts

I have this sci-fi short story I’ve been working on, partly based on a fantastic dream. Warning: it’s definitely not complete. I’m really getting it roughed out, but, then I heard this song today that reminded me of it. Anyway, I thought I’d share the first part. Let me know what you think of the story, and I’d love your suggestions.

Happy Tuesday!

K.

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I’ve never pulled one, but I’ve ferried in over one hundred so far. The train’s second home to me. I’m comforted by her sway, and when I’m on land, I get restless.

I prefer the blurry view through the double-paned windows, the constantly changing landscape: countryside, city, mountain ravine waterway. Variety, there’s no substitute.

I tug at my necklace and wait for the tell-tall scratch. Today, the train will pass the drylands.

“Windows up!” The porter barks on his regular rounds.

The windows will remain shut for the next few hours to hold off the dust. In these parts, it’s not unusual to spot the rotted remains of a farmhouse in between the blur of brown. It reminds me that once this area was inhabitable, vibrant even. Now, nobody could take the heat, let alone the sandy blasts.

Passing through this arid place, a careless tab runner might falter. Fall asleep on the job. Forget the gravity of their duty and end up getting their employer’s prized possessions snatched by an opportunistic thief.

Not me. I’ve got my latest thriller waiting on my lap.

“Hand me a handkerchief, will ya?” asks the loner seated behind me.

I’ve spoken to all the other souls in my car but this bum. Most are vacationing. Passing through to visit family. A few are heading East for a new start. I make it my business to know everyone, but this one was out cold when I boarded.

“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure. I’m Sola.” He doesn’t look up from the leather-bound book. Could be the Bible or just some other archaic text the grifter’s grabbed from an abandoned library.

“Check your seat. Mine’s empty.” He turns a page but doesn’t budge. “Name’s Outh.”

The way he says it makes it sound like tooth without the “t.” He points to the compartment by my seat.

“Sorta assumed these were designated by seat,” I said.

“What on earth could you want with twenty handkerchiefs? Hand me one or I’ll reach in and get it myself.”

“That won’t be necessary. Here.” I say, tossing him a pair, “take two while you’re at it so you’ll have no need of disturbing me the rest of the ride.”

“You’d be wise to respect your elders, missy. That’s what the good book says.” He lifts the book at me. A fanatic. So predictable.

I watch him cover his mouth with a handkerchief, some faint mumbling below the thin surface, but I let him return to his reading.

I make a mental note to keep a close eye on Outh. He’s obviously ridden the rails quite a bit, so it’s possible he’s heard of me on his travels.         ‘

Permanent runners like me start to get a reputation. We’re highly sought after for our reliability and discretion. Sure, we’ve made a living from a technicality, but it’s a serious one. Any landowner not pulling his yearly tabs and releasing the prescribed gas into his personal atmosphere will lose his lands to the state.

“Any bait, by chance?” The old grifter’s back at my ear. He’s wanting to know if I have tabs on me.

“Listen Ouf, I don’t own no more land than this here square-foot of leather real estate. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to enjoy my property in peace.”

I like to think of myself as a contractor, helping law-abiding citizens get their tabs in on time, without having to take the inconvenience of long cross-country trips.

I, myself, love a bumpy ride. I’m reminded of the pictures I’ve seen of the wild, wild west. I can imagine myself as one of those old cowboys with a ten-gallon hat rearing up on my horse about to make my way across the desert.

This trip from Washington state to the capital is one of my favorites. Many folks abandoned life out west after the tab laws came into effect. Why do we need to release a chemical when the air out here ain’t even cloudy? they argued.

But that’s just it, the cans aren’t cleaning the air. They’re keeping the air from killing us.

©2023 | K.F. Hartless

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