Ticket Punched

Covered in days of dust, hungry, and kneeling, Gregory King listened as the train chugged along the dried-up riverbed, some two or three miles behind him. He dreamt about escape. A pointed boot, driven hard into his back, stopped that. He fell forward, arms bound, and landed on his face. One of the men pulled him up. He spit sand, and shook, trying to get it out of his eyes.

The train was quiet, likely in the next town, now, King thought. A locust landed on his knee. He stared at it and never heard the shot that killed him.

 

Prompt courtesy of the Friday Fictioneers. Read more stories here.

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34 thoughts on “Ticket Punched

  1. This was pretty near perfect and you should know it. In case you’re not sure, read my first sentence again. Flash Fiction doesn’t get any better.

    Aloha,

    Doug

  2. How come these 100 words feel like 500?
    Loads of story packed in here. Great read.
    (PS He dreamt about escape or He’d dreamt…? Maybe? Could be how I’m reading it.)

  3. Great atmosphere and mood. The details of the distant train, the dust in his mouth, the locust – all build up such a desolate feeling to lead up to the tragic finish. Superb.

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