Max and the Red Ball

Max fumbled around with his red ball for what seemed like hours. Just rolling it around in his hands, examining every bit of surface as though it contained the meaning of life. And to a toddler, perhaps it did contain the meaning of life. He took it everywhere he went, never playing with it; only examining. From time to time he’d drop the ball and he stare at it confusedly as though the ball had tried to escape. But the ball would always sit there and wait, almost as if it were asking Max to pick him up again. And Max would.

One day, the red ball rolled under the sofa. So Max crawled over and peaked underneath the sofa and there the ball was, sitting lonely in the back. He tried to crawl under but was much too big so he just reached his arm under instead. Max’s arm was much too short to reach the ball, yet he strained anyways to reach it. He strained for minutes, not crying as a normal child would. In fact, he made not a sound until his mother came and scooped him up, at which point he screamed and cried at the loss of the ball. For hours on end Max wept. He wept until his body could weep no more and he feel asleep from sheer exhaustion.

That night as Max lay asleep in his crib, a gentle moonlight shown through the window and cast onto the floor. Suddenly though, as if beckoned, Max awoke and stood in his crib. Looking over the side on the floor in the cast moonlight was the red ball. He stared at it for a while, unmoving, simply perplexed by the mysteries it must hold. Then, after moments of watching, Max attempted to climb over the rail of crib. It was difficult, but after some attempts, he was able to lift himself over the top. Max fell headlong to the floor and snapped his neck. As his last moments of life flickered away on the cold wooden boards, he saw the red ball slowly roll by and settle itself deep underneath the crib.

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Letters from Unsung Heroes: The Train – Samuel

Hello Danny,

I’m afraid my train has gotten caught in a bit of a spot. You see, there seems to have been some sort of a total power failure and we have not progressed for about two days by my estimate. Quite annoying, I admit, but we’ve managed to make a jolly old time of it. Some of the men have conscripted me into helping out with some of the labor. One of my tasks is to keep small fires going as the tunnel we are trapped in seems to have no source of light. Unfortunately, the fuel I gather has to be from various luggage that the other passengers don’t care about and burnable yet unnecessary equipment and crates from the train as there seems to be nothing to burn whatsoever in this dark tunnel. Thankfully, we haven’t had to burn much as most passengers have seemed quite content to just sit quietly in the dark.

I found a few oil lamps in a car near the front that seemed to be a holding area for emergency supplies. What few I found we’ve hung up in and outside of key points on the train. Strangely, one old woman seems to have brought her own. I can’t fathom why she would bring such a thing on a train ride but it has made things easier for everyone.

Anyhow, my helpfulness has not gone unrecognized. The men who’ve been working the rounds have taken notice and invited me into their circle after the work was done last evening. We played cards and they gave me whiskey and rolled cigarettes. I nearly choked on my first smoke and gagged on my first drink. The men broke out into hysterics over this and though I felt ashamed at first, one of them gave me a firm slap on the back and said in a gruff voice, “We’ll make a man of you yet!” and everyone followed with a “Hear, hear!” I realized then that this was some sort of ritual that they have all been through at some point in their life and they probably didn’t just enjoy these things naturally.

Having developed this comradery, I have now taken my first steps into manhood. This disaster has turned into a sort of self realization for me. All the things I used to enjoy seemed so trivial and these simple pleasures are what really bring true happiness. Oh, I’m sure I’ll still get joy out of my old fancies, but this experience has made me much more grounded and for that I am most grateful.

Anyhow, I hope this letter reaches you. The postmaster is going to make an attempt to leave the tunnel by foot and has offered to deliver any messages we might have to those on the outside to let them know of our predicament.

Your good friend
Samuel

P.S. Should you receive this before I arrive, please send word to my mother to let her know that I am alright. She’s probably worried sick that I didn’t phone to inform her of my arrival.

Wonderless

I remember the night well. I was nine years old that late July evening. The circus had come to town and set up a big tent at the county fairgrounds. My whole family decided to go for a fun filled evening of laughs and amazement. It was a very old fashioned kind of circus, nothing that uses any electricity or a motor except for the lights that keep the tent lit up. It was really something to behold to see things done with such spectacle without any sort of modern trickery. For example, when they wanted to emphasize a specific part of the act, they would shine a spotlight on them that appeared to be made from nothing more than a candle, some mirrors and a piece of colored glass. Truth be told, the flickering of the candle seemed to provide much more of a dramatic effect than a standard spotlight would.

The ringmaster was a classic looking fellow with a dark red tuxedo, thin waxy mustache, and black top hat. His lanky frame allowed him to really direct your focus to wherever he so desired. He was, as they say, a master of his craft. The way he spoke and moved his body, he made you believe that every act was going to be the greatest act you would ever see. Now, I don’t know if it was his words of hype or if the acts were just that good, but every single one of them felt absolutely incredible. Of course, some of them would have been considered nothing but amazing in their own right.

Have you ever seen a man riding a lion riding a horse? I have. I’ve also seen a midget flung out of a trebuchet and catch a fish in his teeth as he flew through the air. The feats performed in this circus were nothing more than amazing. In fact, it was so incredible that no one noticed any of the intricacies that made the show work. But I think I did. In fact, I think I saw something I wasn’t supposed to.

Imagine if you were to purchase a seamless quilt and then sometime after the purchase you were to find one of the seams. Though the casual observer would never notice it, you on the other hand would see it every time and could never stop seeing how out of place it looked. If you brought it to the manufacturer’s attention, they would be either embarrassed or insulted; perhaps even both. You were never supposed to see it and yet now it is glaring so obviously that you can never unsee it and the manufacturer knows.

I think I saw a seam.

About midway through the show, three small horse drawn wagons came trotting out to the middle of the tent. The horses stopped and a door opened on each side of each wagon. That’s when the clowns started coming out. One by one they climbed out of each door of each wagon, sometimes literally falling over each other. There must have been twenty in each. They were ridiculous and each one had their own look. Though I shall not attempt to describe them all, I will note there was something peculiar about them that at the same time made them more delightful. Sewn into the left breast of each clown suit was a tan name badge. The sewing was done very whimsical and childlike and the stitching of each name was done in a different color thread. They had fun names like Scott, Jason, Fred, and Mr. Fluffles.

They all partook in various delightful antics such as spraying seltzer water in each other’s faces and throwing pies. Some of them were much more ambitious performing such feats as making human pyramids which were knocked down with human bowling balls.

And that’s where I think I saw the seam. Immediately after the human pyramid came tumbling down, all the clowns sprang up with life and immediately went into their next routines without pause nor break. That’s when I caught a glimpse of something that I shouldn’t have. It only lasted seconds but felt like minutes.

One of the clowns, a particularly short one, from the pyramid was running to his next set when I saw his face or lack thereof. There were no eyes, nose, ears, or mouth if any kind. It wasn’t as though they had been lost in some tragic event, but instead as if he never had them to begin with. His face was completely smooth, almost more perfect than any face should be. It was made all the more disturbing by how meticulously the standard clown makeup was painted on. The white face. The big red painted in lips. The blue eye makeup. All without any of the features they were supposed to exaggerate. Even the goofy red foam nose appeared to simply be held to his face by some sort of adhesive.

And then he turned his head slightly and looked at me. Or at least it seemed that way. It was as though he was starting a hole into my eyes, even though he had none. I tried to look away and though I averted my gaze down my shoes, I could not help but look back up. When I did, I saw that the clown had turned his body to face me straight on and he looked angry. Though there was no face, his brow had furled in such a way that I knew he was mad.

I tried to look away again, but could not take my eyes away. I only managed to lower them enough to read the name badge sewn into his clown suit. It said BOBO and was written in a teal thread. I fixed my gaze back to Bobo’s face.

Another clown ran up and started tugging on Bobo’s arm, seemingly pleading with him to go. But Bobo didn’t even seem to notice. He just kept staring at me, piercing a hole into my soul. The ringmaster then stormed over to the two clowns shouting with his arms outstretched. Though I could not make it what he was saying, I soon figured it out when the second clown ceased his tugging and pointed at me. The ringmaster snapped his head in my direction and glared directly into my eyes.

Instantly, I was overwhelmed with terror and quickly turned my head to other parts of the circus. And then I saw all the seams. Between all the antics the other clowns were performing, there were circus workers setting up for the next act. Poles and nets were being erected. High wires were being strung up. Midget canons were being moved into position. The sounds of hammer and nails could be heard as pieces were secured into place.

I looked back towards the ringmaster just in time to see him storming off angrily. This time, he did not look back.

I glanced towards my parents who were apparently oblivious to the whole thing as they simply just delighted in the performance in front of them.

I tried to push the frightening experience from my mind and enjoy the rest of the show but I couldn’t. There was so much distracting me from the acts. For example, while the animal tricks were going on, a rollercoaster was being set up for the unicycle act. While the unicycle act was happening, a high dive was being prepared for the trapeze artists. While the trapeze artists were performing their high dive, the target for the midget canon was being put into place. And so forth throughout the remainder of the show. In fact, I was so distracted by all the stuff going on, I didn’t actually see any of the remaining acts themselves.

When we left, my father exclaimed, “Wow, wasn’t that great!”

“I guess,” I replied sheepishly, “but I often found myself distracted all the other stuff going on.”

My mother looked at me confused. “Whatever do you mean dear?”

“You know; all the pieces they were constantly setting up for the next act.”

“You actually saw all that?” my dad managed to laugh out. “The show was so seamless that I never saw any of it. You’ll have to tell me about it when we get home. I was really wondering how they managed to do it all.”

“You mean you didn’t see any of it?”

They both just smiled and shook their heads.

“It must be that childlike wonder,” my mom said. “So curious and observant that you notice the things the rest of us just tune out.”

I never did bring up Bobo the faceless clown to my parents nor did I mention the frightening experience with the ringmaster. There didn’t seem any need to as I suspected that they never saw it happen either. Speaking with several classmates and other people who went to the show, I learned that none of them saw any of what I saw either. I chalked it up to just a bad experience and tried to move on with my life, leaving the whole awful experience in the past.

Throughout the rest of my school years, I found that I was very keen on picking up what others could not and did extremely well. Excelling where others did not and above where others did made me cocky. At the time, I thought there was something great about me, and why shouldn’t I have? I passed through college with flying colors and worked my way up the corporate ladder to become one of the most successful businessmen in the world. I was revered and loved, even by those who hated me. How many people were so good at what they did that they would donate everything on multiple occasions knowing full well that they were good enough to earn it all back in the blink of an eye?

However, after several failed marriages (all of them ending in my favor, mind you), I began to suspect that something wrong with me. Despite all my accomplishments and success, I wasn’t happy. When I began to analyze my life, I noticed that I didn’t have any close friends. In fact, the only people who remained friends with me were the ones who only saw me on occasion. Everyone else grew tired of me and cut their ties just like my many wives. Just like my children. I tried to contact a few of them to find out why they left. Only one person actually got back to me. It was my best friend from grade school. He simply told me, “You take the joy out of everything.” And that was the last I heard from him.

I thought about what he has said for a long while. Looking back through my life, I noticed how terribly boring everything was. There was no sense of wonder in anything as I only had to look at it and could see how it worked. Every single little detail was visible, making whatever it was I was looking at incredibly dull. In retrospect, I was a terrible burden for anyone who wanted to enjoy life. Like a leach, I just sucked all the wonder and awe right out of them. How the hell did I get a woman to stay with me long enough to get married, let alone five? Right, I knew just what to do. I knew how to keep them in tow long enough to suck the last bits of happiness out of them before they couldn’t take it anymore and they ended it in bitter divorce. A divorce that always ended in my favor. Even in salvation I still managed to crush their souls.

Examining my life, I tried to find the last moment I was genuinely happy, the last time I had a genuine sense of wonder. I was nine. The circus had come to town and set up a big tent at the county fairgrounds. My whole family decided to go for a fun filled evening of laughs and amazement. It was a very old fashioned kind of circus, nothing that uses any electricity or a motor except for the lights that keep the tent lit up. It was really something to behold to see things done with such spectacle without any sort of modern trickery. And then I saw the clown. Bobo. That was the moment I lost my wonder. That was the moment I began to see everything. That was the moment my life fell apart.

Suddenly, things were starting to make sense. Suddenly, the moment my life had changed for the worse was clear. With this newfound knowledge, I had regained my sense of wonder, even if it was only for one thing. Who was this clown?

I started by looking at old newspaper clippings at the library from the date I was at the circus. Since I couldn’t remember what it was called, I figured I should start at the one location I knew was concrete. It wasn’t long before I found what I was looking for. The front page of the local paper from that day had read, “RINGLE’S OLDE TYME CIRCUS DELIGHTS AND ENTERTAINS.”

The article went on to give a praising review about how spectacular the show was. The only photograph was of the outside of the tent with people leaving in delight. Aside from the headline, the article provided no useful information, but that was okay. I got what I came for in the name of the circus which I quickly jotted down on a piece of paper before heading home to do some research on the internet.

However, what I thought would be quick with lots of information instead turned into days and weeks of research with very little to find. I found plenty of reviews on the circus, but almost no pictures and what pictures that I could find were always of the outside. This seemed quite strange living in an age of cell phones and Facebook to not be able to find a single picture inside the tent. From what I was able to gather reading various article that no one with a cell phone or camera of any sort was admitted into the tent. If anyone wanted to see the show, they had to leave any picture taking devices outside. According to one interview, this was because they run a very careful show and a photograph could take someone out of the experience and ruin the magic of it all. This seemed like a lame excuse at first, but then I thought back to what had happened to me. If someone were to take a photo, they might see something that was never meant to be seen.

After what seemed like must have been at least a month of tireless searching, I was getting ready to give up. I was no closer than when I started and the fatigue had been weighing heavy. It was about then I stumbled across an article about a man who had committed suicide via malnutrition. The article was from about eight years ago and seemed wholly unrelated to my quest, but I had never heard of someone intentionally killing themselves via malnutrition and it piqued my curiosity and even the tiniest sense of wonder filled me with excitement.

His name was Gregory Walters and he was fifty-six years old when he died. It wasn’t much of an article. If anything, it was more like an extreme obituary. He was a computer programmer who fell into a deep depression at twenty-eight years old and remained that way until he died. The story mentioned a suicide note was left on a message board but didn’t give the contents of it. Not only that, it didn’t even name the message board or his username.

It took a bit of bit of digging, but I eventually found the post. He went by the uninspired handle of gregory_walters2. Apparently, someone already had the handle of gregory_walters. He had actually posted his suicide note three years prior to his death. I guess it takes a while to die of malnutrition. His final post before his death just simply read, “Looks like it’s just about time to go. Always keep wondering. ” The replies were full of annoyance. “Seriously? After all the curiosity you’ve killed? That’s your final statement? What an ass!” Most of the comments shared the sentiment.

Gregory had been posting on this board for quite a few years. No matter what he said, he seemed to excel at sucking the enjoyment out of everything. Someone would point out something strange or peculiar and Gregory would just point out how mundane it really was. In detail. The thing was, he didn’t seem to be getting any enjoyment out of it. It just seemed he had nothing else to do. A few times he mentioned how he was just helping, though he was under no illusion as to why they were upset with him. He knew. And he understood.

This was all very interesting stuff and it soon got a lot more interesting as I was making my way backwards through his posts attempting to find the suicide note. There was a reply from a user that caught every bit of my attention. It was in response to Gregory defending his helpfulness. The user replied, “Just go FUCK OFF already! You and your stupid clown. Nobody gives a shit.”

Suddenly, his death was a lot more important.

Here was a man who like me had no sense of wonder and somehow in all of this, a clown is involved. My memories were taken back to the night at the circus and of that awful faceless clown. I shuddered as a chill ran down my spine. Could things be falling into place?

I continued digging through his posts. For the most part, they were pretty mundane. It took me a while, but I eventually made it to the suicide note after sifting through three years of posts. I suppose to average person reading it, it sounded like someone really had no intentions of killing themselves. But to me, it felt like a terrifying echo.

“I know many of you don’t appreciate the information I give on here. Don’t worry, I understand why. In fact, I understand everything. I have understood everything for the past twenty-five years. It is for this reason I have decided to take my life. I have no intention of making a spectacle of it. There is nothing interesting in that. I simply choose not to do anything to actively sustain my life.

“Ever since that day at Ringle’s Circus, since I saw that faceless clown, there is nothing to wonder anymore. I have no curiosity. I don’t know why or what the clown has to do with it, but for some reason, I can pinpoint to that moment as the day I lost hope. The day I could no longer look forward to something new and interesting. I’m tired of it. Without curiosity, there is no joy. No motivation. Just, emptiness.

“So, I’ll continue try to be of help until the day comes, though I know there will be little appreciation. If I can help one struggling person, then it’ll be worth it, even if it is of no consequence to me. If I can offer one piece of advice that you all need to heed, it’s stay away from the circus. Just stay away.”

I must have read the suicide note twenty times. It seemed so strange to me. Here was a man who was writing to the world about why he needed to end it and what people needed to do to save themselves, and yet he didn’t seem to give a damn. It was so poor that it’s no wonder that no one took him seriously. He even told them that it wouldn’t be a spectacle and then continued to post for another three years before finally dying of malnutrition. When it takes three years of no effort, can that even be considered suicide anymore?

But then I read the comments. Mostly negative, but a few caught my eye. Comments like, “Not this clown bullshit again.”

So. It was the clown. But was it the same clown? Strange he didn’t mention the clown once in the three years after he posted the suicide note, but by all the comments, it seems like it had been a recurring theme.

As I continued to dig deeper and deeper in Gregory’s post history, the posts about the clown grew more frequent. More detailed. He often referred to him as the faceless clown, but in one post, Gregory called him by name. Bob. Gregory hadn’t even seen his whole name tag, but somehow noticed everything else in the world around him from that point on. It seems trivial to focus on such a minute detail, but how does one suddenly understand everything around him and yet miss something on the thing that caused it.

I created a handle on the message board and replied to the long dormant post.

“His name wasn’t Bob. It was Bobo.”

It was about three minutes before I got a reply.

“Oh FUCK! Not this shitagain. Why isn’t this thread locked?”

Over the next few weeks, I posted replies on the various topics that Gregory had posted and replied to, only have them locked within minutes, mostly because they were old threads. Eventually, my account was banned for bumping old threads and what the moderators claimed was spamming. I cursed angrily at the computer before shutting it down.

I was exhausted. Tired. Defeated. I was ready to give up. I plopped down on the couch and stared at the blank television screen. I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I watched it, so I turned it on. All that came up was a solid box that said NO SIGNAL FOUND. That’s right. I didn’t have cable. I walked over to the set and found a remote for Roku. Funny, I don’t recall ever using a Roku, but come to think of it, my last wife used it quite a bit. I turned it on and opened up Hulu. It worked and I began to wonder how long my bank account had been paying for this, not that it mattered. I hit play on a show called South Park and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. I laughed. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had such enjoyment so when the beer was finished, I grabbed another one. And when the episode finished, I watched another and grabbed another beer. And so was the cycle of my evening.

I was awakened by the sun shortly after ten the next morning surrounded by empty beer bottles. It was bright and seemed to make my entire apartment glow. Shielding my eyes, I sat up and took a half sleepy look around. The television screen simply had the word ROKU bouncing around inside of it. I chuckled to myself. Apparently I had passed out watching television and though I had a slight hangover, I was feeling pretty good. Though I wasn’t sure why, I had a strange sense of peace about me and I wasn’t going to question it. After a shower and some breakfast, I made my way outside.

It was beautiful. The sky was an amazing shade of blue and clouds of the purest white were scattered about. Birds chirped gently in the trees by the sidewalk as people rode by on their bicycles. On one corner was a young boy hustling newspapers. I’d never noticed him before and the few times I actually read a newspaper, it was because I noticed a headline at the convenience store and didn’t want to take the time to look it up on my phone. I wondered how long this kid had been hustling and so I walked over to him.

“Hey, kid,” I said. “How long have you been hustling papers on this corner?”

He looked up and smiled.

“About three months, sir,” he replied.

“Three months!?” I asked astonished. “How is it you’ve been doing this for three months and I’ve never noticed?”

“Dunno, sir. The last kid worked this corner for three years before I took over.”

“Three years? Has there really been a young paper hustler on this corner for three years?”

“Longer I think, sir.”

“Really? Well what happened to the kid before you?”

“He got a promotion. The Daily Telegram called him up to work in the headquarters.”

“The Daily Telegram?”

The boy looked at me puzzled. “The local newspaper, sir.”

“I’ve never heard of such a paper? How on earth does it stay in business, let alone afford to pay someone to stand on the street and hustle them?”

The boy shrugged. “It’s the old school charm of it all, I suppose. All the big papers have gotten so impersonal, you know. But The Daily Telegram stays small and local, growing only big enough to survive, but not so big as to lose its appeal. Instead of putting papers inside stores, delivering to houses, or having an expensive website, it hires young local boys such as myself so sell in our own little sections of the community.”

“Huh,” I said, surprised. “Well, how much for a paper?”

“Fifty cents, sir.”

The price took me back. I hadn’t expected such a low cost. “Fifty cents!?” I exclaimed. “Surely that can’t be the price. You mean a dollar fifty, right? Or perhaps two fifty?”

“No. Just fifty cents, sir. Although we do appreciate tips.”

I was shocked. How had I never noticed this? It was really quite pathetic for a man who noticed everything. I handed him a five-dollar bill and purchased a paper.

“Keep the change, lad. You’ve made my day,” I said as I walked away.

“Thank you, sir!” he shouted after me.

As I walked down the street, I unfolded the paper to see what the local news was. Considering I had never even noticed the local paper hustlers in this town, I wondered what else I’d never noticed. What I saw when I unfolded it, however, caught me off guard. Right on the front page was a photograph of a large circus tent with the headline “RINGLE’S OLDE TYME CIRCUS COMES TO TOWN.”

Upon reading the article, I found the headline slightly inaccurate as it was really about three towns over. It wasn’t until sometime later that I learned this paper covered all the towns in the county so it was, technically, accurate. I pondered for a while on what I should do. Fear started to overcome me as the pace of my heart quickly intensified. Beating forcefully in my chest, I felt anxiety becoming overwhelming. Deep down, I knew I had to go, but I was in no condition to take myself, so I called for a taxi. The whole drive, I could feel my heart racing. I must have looked like a paranoid lunatic as I could see the driver making concerned glances at me through his rearview mirror. When he dropped me off at the circus, I just stared at the tent for what seemed like an eternity, but was more likely only a few seconds.

“You gonna be okay, bub?”

“Huh?” I asked somewhat disoriented as I regained my senses.

“I said, ‘are you gonna be okay, bub?'”

It was the taxi driver. Looking into his eyes, I could tell that he had a lot of concern for people, something I hadn’t really seen in anyone before, perhaps because I never really paid enough attention to show any myself. I was beginning to think that for all that I saw, there was an equal amount that I had missed.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah. I think I’ll be fine.”

In reality, I wasn’t sure how fine I’d be, but with perhaps the only chance I’ll have to find my answers, I walked towards that circus tent.

Inside, I found a seat and waited uncomfortably by crowds of excited families. For all the joy that surrounded me, I was terribly uncomfortable. It seemed like forever before the show started, but once it did, I could not have expected it to affect me the way it did.

The Ringmaster came out, the same one as when I was just a child. Despite now having gray hair, he looked just the same as he did before and commanded just as much presence as he ever did. I’m not quite sure how he did it, but I was impressed. But as he was going through his whole ladies and gentlemen spiel, he seemed to look directly at me without ever breaking his routine. At first, I thought it was just coincidence until he took off his top hat and took a bow. As he did, he lifted his head slightly, looked into my eyes, and gave a slight nod before he left.

Logic dictated that such an action should’ve terrified me, but somehow, I knew that it was friendly. Somehow, I knew that his nod was a gesture of goodwill. I don’t know why, but like most everything else in my life over the past twenty-six years, I knew exactly what it’s purpose was.

Watching the show this time around was a completely different experience. I saw exactly how everything worked, just like I did as a ten-year-old boy. But unlike the first time, I also got to see the show and enjoy it. It was marvelous. The wonder wasn’t there, but it was still incredible to watch. At the end along with everyone, I participated in the standing ovation. As we all filed out of the tent, I could tell from the conversations that people were having that I was the only one who saw the inner workings of the circus. That was okay with me. Considering what I had been through, it was probably for the better. I was just glad that it was finally over. Or so I thought.

Exiting the tent, I felt a hand upon my shoulder. Turning around, I came face to face with the ticket taker who gave me a warm smile.

“The Ringmaster would like to have a special word with you in his wagon if you don’t mind,” he said.

Seriously? What could he possibly want. I was nervous. I hadn’t gotten the answers I wanted when I came, but at this point, I didn’t feel that I really needed them. But if the Ringmaster wanted to see me, then perhaps maybe my answers needed to be revealed. I asked the ticket man for directions and he kindly gave them to me. Upon arriving at the wagon, I found it to be quite simply made and painted red with a gold painted trim. There was no name or anything distinguishing it from the other wagons other than the trim itself. I knocked. The door opened and the Ringmaster invited me in. And so I entered. He sat down in his chair as I just stood there and stared. I apparently didn’t realize that outside of the tent, he was a very casual man.

“Come,” he said, “please sit.”

And so I sat.

He leaned back and smiled as he twisted one end of his waxy moustache between his fingers. He just stared at me for a little bit as though he was analyzing me to make sure he knew everything he needed to before he made any statements. Finally, he spoke again.

“I remember you,” he said.

“I kind of got that feeling,” I replied.

“Twenty-six years ago. You were just a boy. You saw a part of our show you weren’t supposed to see.”

“How could you possibly know who I am?”

“I never forget a face.”

I was taken aback. Really? Such a clichéd line, yet to the best of my knowledge, there could be no other explanation.

“Alright,” I responded. “Fair enough. How did you pick me out of the crowd?”

“I have very good eyes.”

Was this guy for real? Has he been looking for me at every show since then? I was starting to feel uncomfortable.

“Honestly,” he began, “I thought I caught a glimpse of someone I’d seen before during my jabbering at the start of the show. That’s why I did the bow in your direction. I wanted to be sure without calling too much attention to myself. When I realized that it was someone who’d seen some of our more intimate details, I knew I had to speak to you.”

“What the hell did you do to me?” I demanded.

“Do to you? What preposterous presumptions you have. What makes you assume that I’ve ever done anything to you?

He seemed genuinely insulted. I realized I had directed my question at the wrong individual, or to put it more accurately, about the wrong individual.

“Let me rephrase,” I said angrily. “What did that fucking clown do to me!?”

Apparently, I had said the wrong thing. With my words, his eyes burst wide with fire and he stood up, tall and menacingly. He pounded his cane to the floor with great fury. He spoke with a booming anger that made shrink in fear.

“DO NOT SPEAK ILL OF THE DEAD!! Let alone those less fortunate then you.”

I was paralyzed. Too afraid to speak or move. When he saw the fear in my eyes, he seemed to compose himself and sit down. He lit a cigarette for himself and offered me one. I did not decline out of fear of insulting him again.

“Perhaps I should explain,” he said. “The clown of which you speak passed away two and a half years ago. The poor wretch lived a hard life, but he was kind. His name was Bobo.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Oh, so you were able to read his name tag? Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You do seem to have such a fine eye for detail.”

“So, the clown could see me…”

“See you?” he said amused by my statement. “What? No! You did notice that he had no face, right?”

“Of course I noticed he had no face. But he looked right at me. Not just looked, but stared right into my eyes. And then you make this comment about knowing my eye for detail. It seems to me that you’ve seen this thing happen before.”

The Ringmaster laughed gently and took a deep drag on his cigarette. With an exhale and a sigh, he answered my accusations.

“Bobo could not see you. At best, he could make out varying degrees of brightness. Despite his appearances, he was born with eyes, ears, and mouth, just none of the cartilage to form a proper nose or ears.”

“But his head was totally smooth,” I protested. “There were not even holes for ears or mouth, nor lids for eyes to see.”

“Please, don’t interrupt.” He took another drag on his cigarette and then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands hang down. “Bobo was born with skin completely covering his entire head. At the time of his birth, doctors were not sure what to do, only that they knew he would die if they didn’t do something immediately. They were young and not prepared to deal with such a horrible situation. Afraid to make a mouth out of fear that a newborn would choke on any blood, they opted to create a hole in his throat to allow him to breathe. He was fed intravenously through a special tube inserted into his arm.”

I stared at the Ringmaster in complete disbelief. This was so much to take in and didn’t make a whole lot of sense.

“That sounds completely retarded,” I objected. “If he truly had eyes and mouth and ears, then why didn’t he just get the surgery to correct it? It’s not like we’re living in the dark ages.”

The Ringmaster raised an eyebrow and leaned back.

“Retarded? Really? Let me ask you this. If you had spent most of your life living without true sight, muffled sounds, and the inability to properly speak with others; if you had learned to live your life with fulfillment and happiness and then someone offered you to completely turn your world upside down from what you had known, would you take it? If you are honest with yourself, you’ll realize that such a change is a terrifying prospect. Bobo was at peace with who he was. To change that was an element of fear he did not desire.”

I sat and thought about what he’d just said for a moment. We often spend so much time feeling sorry for those less fortunate then us without ever giving pause to find out if they are happy as they are. So often we want to correct their problems without ever stopping to ask if they themselves consider it a problem to begin with. Though I was briefly distracted by these thoughts, it wasn’t long before I got back to the matter at hand.

“Alright,” I said, “if he couldn’t see me, then why did he stop and look right at me?”

The Ringmaster laughed.

“Oh-ho-ho-ho! He wasn’t looking at you. Bobo had incredible awareness of what was going on around him, but on occasion he would have difficulty figuring out what was exactly was happening and he’d have to stop and try to collect himself to move on. You just happened to witness one of those moments.”

“He looked pissed that I saw him,” I replied.

“Of course he looked ‘pissed’. He was having more difficulty than normal figuring out what was going on and he just happened to be facing your direction.”

“What about you?” I asked. “You looked pretty pissed at me, too.”

“Not so much pissed at you, more visibly upset that someone had witnessed the operations of our show that are not meant to be seen by public eyes. We take a great deal of care to make the show as seamless as possible while distracting the eye from how we do it.”

All his answers had seemed pretty reasonable thus far, but that still didn’t explain what happened to myself and Gregory. I needed to know.

“What about Gregory Walters?” I asked.

“Who?” he replied. The Ringmaster seemed to genuinely have no knowledge him.

“Gregory Walters. He saw Bobo the clown and suddenly understood how everything worked. He had no sense of wonder anymore and fell into a depression so bad that he eventually committed suicide via malnutrition. Nearly the same thing happened to me. I was able to see exactly how everything worked. My entire sense of wonder was gone. It cost me friendships, marriages, and my children. The only thing it hasn’t taken from me yet is my life. How do you explain all that? Huh? Two people witnessed that clown and suddenly we know everything? Suddenly we have no more curiosity? Suddenly our lives turn to shit? How do you explain that!?”

The Ringmaster appeared to be taken back, though not by what had happened but by my accusations. He took one final deep puff of his cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray next to him and leaning forward to me.

“Look,” he began, “I have no knowledge of who this Gregory Walters was or the circumstances that lead to his death. I cannot vouch for anything that has happened in his life. Did he see Bobo the clown? Perhaps. But since I don’t personally know anything about him, there is nothing I can say about his situation. I can say this, however. For one who claims to have lost his wonder and knows everything, you sure have a lot of questions.”

He was right. Over the past few months or more, I’ve had a considerable amount of wonder. In fact, I hadn’t even stopped to consider it. I had become so engrossed in finding out what had happened that I didn’t even realize that I couldn’t see how everything worked.

“Let me propose a question to you,” he continued. “Let’s suppose you were witnessing the most amazing thing you had ever seen in your entire life when you visited our circus all those years ago. Now, when you noticed poor Bobo, you also witnessed the inner workings of the most amazing thing in your life at the same moment you were seeing it. Suddenly, everything else doesn’t seem that incredible anymore, does it? I would speculate that at that moment, your eyes and ears became much more attuned to the world around you. I would imagine that you and this Gregory fellow started picking up on little subtleties that the most people would never have noticed.

“No, I wouldn’t presume that you lost your sense of wonder. Far from it. I would estimate that you picked up on so many small details that you didn’t notice the finer ones. I would estimate that you were so preoccupied with the insignificant points that you failed to appreciate what was good and interesting in your life.”

He was right again. Once I started having questions again, I started seeing all the good things around me, like that paper pusher I’d never noticed. Hell, I didn’t even know we still had a local newspaper or even what its name was. But I’d never felt depressed. Sure, I hadn’t been truly happy, but I wasn’t depressed. Then I started to think about the path I took. While I became a burden on everyone else, Gregory became a burden on himself. While I became incredibly successful, Gregory resigned himself to the lonely corner of the internet with no real direction to focus his lack of curiosity. While I had made something of myself, Gregory did nothing to keep himself going. And I believe that’s where we diverged. My constant pushing allowed me to hunt down my source where Greg just gave up. That’s why I was able to break free.

“You seem deep in thought,” the Ringmaster said.

“What?” I asked as I snapped back into the conversation. “Oh, yes. Sorry. Um, why did you invite me in here? You said you had to speak to me?”

His eyes lit up.

“Oh, right! My, how we’ve wandered off topic. My apologies. It’s been so long since I’ve had such a good conversation with an outsider that I had forgotten why I called for you in the first place. But then again, you’re no ordinary outsider are you.”

I nodded.

“Listen, when I noticed you the first time way back when, I realized that you had probably seen all the inner workings of our show and now I know this to be fact.” He sighed and let out a breath. “I’m getting old and in a few more years I shall need to retire. I can’t keep doing this forever and yet the show must go on.”

“You can’t be serious,” I replied when I realized what he was about to ask me.

“I can’t be replaced with just anybody and the other performers all have their own roles. The role of Ringmaster will require a fresh face. Someone who can see what’s going on without putting too much focus on one act over the other. Someone who knows how to run a show.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Was he seriously asking me to take over for him?

“I don’t know the first thing about running a circus!” I exclaimed. “What makes you think I would even want to in the first place?”

A sly smile slid across his face.

“You like a challenge, don’t you? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I presume you’ve been very successful in life, despite your faults. Your quip earlier about marriages, plural, indicates to me that you must have some degree of success, otherwise I don’t imagine these women would keep marrying you.”

To say I was speechless would be to put it mildly. This man seemed to be able to read me like a book and I had nothing to counter him with. As I just sat there dumbfounded, he leaned back and continued.

“Oh, you won’t just get thrown into it. I’d still be running the show for a few more years while you trained under me until I thought it was in good hands. The performers and crew are truly good people and you’ll develop wonderful lasting relationships with them all. It’s a hard life, but a worthwhile one. I wouldn’t trade a day of it for anything else. What do you say?”

The Ringmaster extended a hand towards me. I stared at it for a bit as I thought about my life since that day. All that I had missed. All that I had lost. My friends hated me. My family hated me. I’m relatively sure I must be fired from my job by now for all the time I’ve missed without giving even so much as a phone call. I had alienated almost everyone I knew. At this point, I didn’t have anything except for a regained sense of wonder and a lot of free time on my hands. I didn’t have to think long.

Reaching out and grasping his hand, I gave it a firm shake. With all that time and wonder, I might as well put it to good use.

Letters from Unsung Heroes: The Train – Jacob Edger

A child died today. By my estimate, she was somewhere between ten and thirteen. I don’t know what happened. But it shook me to my core. It was not long after the lights went out and the train stopped. We were sitting there in our seats quietly. It was pitch black and no one spoke a single word as though there was some form of unspoken etiquette about being trapped in the dark with a  bunch of strangers. It had been perhaps hours since everything stopped when it started to happen.

There was a shuffling, and then the sounds of feet walking across the train floor. Then, a soft and gentle voice started to speak.

“Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.”

And then the voice spoke it again. And again. And again. And so forth.

We could not see anything, but we could hear the steps and the voice. They would fade slightly and come back repeatedly. Finally, I lit a match and leaned out of my seat to see what was going on and there was the girl of whom I had previously spoke of dying. She was walking in a circle, face looking down to the floor. Some of us tried to speak with her, but she did not respond. She just kept walking in her circle. One man tried to see if he could help. He got down on his knees and put his hands on her shoulders. She flipped out, went into some kind of rage while never moving from her spot. Flailing and screaming hysterically, she bit his thumb and it bled profusely. He lurched back to his seat and she went back to repeating her line and walking in a circle as though nothing had happened at all. That was the last time anyone tried to help her.

She did not stop for sleep, nor drink, nor food, nor bathroom. She just kept going all day, all night, and what I presume to be all the next day. And then she just collapsed. Her body didn’t move. She had no breath. And according the individual who eventually got down to check the body, no pulse either.

“She’s dead,” he said.

Then there was a loud bang and a spray of blood. No one was quite sure where the sound had come from, though it was definitely in our car. When our eyes gazed back to the body, we noticed a whole in its head. That’s when a voice spoke from the shadows.

“And now she won’t be coming back,” it said.

I don’t know who fired that gun, there was only enough light to see the body. About three people, a man and two women, rushed in from another car to see what had happened. They were horrified at the dead body when they saw it. The man started shouting questions, demanding to know what happened. No one answered. They just sat in their seats and fixed their gaze straight ahead like I did.

I never considered myself a Christian man. Now I’m sure of it. There is no God. What I am not sure of, however, is whether or not there is a devil. If there is, however, I have reason to believe he is here with us right now.

To whomever finds this letter,
Jacob Edger

Letters from Unsung Heroes: The Train – Jessica Wildersen

Dear Sarah,

Apologies for my lateness, but the train that was to carry me to West Hampshire seems to have broken as I have been trapped in this tunnel with no power for two days. Don’t worry about me for I am doing very well. To be honest, I’m actually finding this quite liberating. Sure, in the beginning, I was annoyed, but after a time it felt quite freeing. We fall into these repeated gestures in order to uphold the standards of society, but for what? To appease some unspoken form of dignity? Why?

A nice young woman gave me a pair of jeans and a dark green tank top to wear (or at least I think it was dark green, I couldn’t really tell because it was so dark) so I wouldn’t have to sit in my formal dress the whole time. It was very nice of her and she just happened to be my size. I must say, the clothes she gave me are extremely comfortable and honestly, I may want to start reserving formal wear for special occasions rather than everyday. Thankfully my boots, though high in heel, are very comfortable and supportive. Though they look a little silly with jeans and tank top, they are certainly better than going around barefoot.

I know what you must be thinking. “Barefoot!? On a train?” Well, the change in attire did want to make me take my boots off and kick my feet up, but instead, I’ve been constantly bustling around, helping out with the hard work. Now don’t scoff at me, but I think I rather enjoy getting my hands dirty. I’ve been helping out where I can and being of use to people. I figure if that nice young woman can help me out, than I can help out too. I helped collect useless junk from the various cars to use as fuel to make a fire. It’s amazing how much old useless junk is left hidden away in the compartments of the trains and the non-passenger cars. All in all, we found quite enough that we should be able to make a few more days worth of fires if we have too.

Speaking of fire, some of the men set up a table near the fire outside the train and started a card game called poker. I must say, it was quite fun and they were kind enough to let me have one of their cigars and some whiskey. I must say that I did not handle them well. It was really awful and I cannot figure out why men smoke and drink such things, but they seemed to get quite a kick out of me attempting it. That’s when I noticed the girl who’d given me the clothes earlier. She was standing in the shadows smoking a cigar and had seen the whole thing. She laughed and then gave me something of a nod of approval as if to say that it’s okay. I laughed and looked away somewhat embarrassed. I’d like to be friends with this woman, but when I looked back up, she was walking into the darkness. I only ever see her for very brief moments, but when I do, she always seems to be helping someone.

I’m afraid I must let you go, Sarah. The postman is coming around to collect the letters. He’s going to get help and has offered to take any messages we have with him. Hopefully we’ll be out of here soon, though I am grateful for the experience. It has taught me much.

Your friend,
Jessica Wildersen

Letters from Unsung Heroes: The Train – Andrew Herman

Mark,

I hope this letter reaches you in haste. We have been trapped aboard this train for two days now and there seems to be no sign of escape. I’m not really sure what’s going on, but I’m terrified. There is an almost frightening calm amongst everyone on board with the greatest emotional problem seeming to be mild annoyance. Logically, people should be freaking out, but they’re not. Instead, they’re all remaining unreasonably mild about all of this. I even saw an old woman happily knitting in the dark. Who happily knits in the dark!?

I know you think I’m often paranoid, but I honestly believe that some evil force has over taken this train and that I’m the only one who sees it. Everyone else is just brainwashed or worse; perhaps they’re all in on it. What if, perhaps, they all plot to kill me?

That was a close one. The postman just came by to take my letter. He claims he’s going to try to get help and deliver any messages free of charge, but I am on to their little ruse. I quickly hid this letter under my satchel simply told him that I do not have one to said. He looked at me funny and then continued on taking letters from the other passengers after asking if I was sure. Shit! That may have aroused suspicion. Stupid! I should’ve figured this out sooner and written a dummy letter to hand him. I may have just condemned myself. Surely they shall now suspect that I am on to them and will kill me first chance they get.

Dear Mark, I am going to attempt to make an escape by heading out the tunnel back the way we came. As soon as I reach civilization again, I shall send this letter to you along with an amendment at the end telling you of my situation wherever I end up. I pray that I won’t have to go into hiding again, but I fear that I shall need to make myself scarce once I make my escape. So if you don’t hear from me again after you receive this letter, you’ll know why.

Love,

Andrew Herman

Letters from Unsung Heroes: The Train – Fieldcrest R. W. Wallace the Sixth

To whom it may concern

My name is Fieldcrest R. W. Wallace the Sixth. I am writing to inform you of the dissatisfaction I have over your locomotive as my choice of travel. The experience I have had has been most displeasing and I shall not be using your company again, nor shall I recommend your services to my colleagues. The troubles I have had on your railway have been most disappointing and I can think of no such way in which you can make satisfactory reparations. Allow me to explain to you why I am so dissatisfied.

I had a business arrangement in Albany. Being so close to West Hampshire, I decided it would be in my best interest to take a locomotive from Bethany and renting a motor car when I arrived to maximize my relaxation time before I had to get down to work. I procured numerous periodicals to determine which would company would simply be the best for my leisure. Not only did yours get the highest ratings, but it was especially detailed on how remarkable the food was. It explicitly noted how astounding your cheeseburgers were. With such high marks, I immediately wired for a ticket to what I expected to be the highlight of my journey.

I must say, when I first boarded the locomotive, my  experience was quite delightful. A charming member of the staff assisted me to my seat and helped me to stow my luggage. After which, I made my way to the dining car to read the periodicals and enjoy a nice cup of coffee and a simple plain doughnut. The coffee was brewed to perfection and the doughnut felt and tasted as though it were fresh out of the oven. Top notch. Being late in the morning but not yet lunchtime, I had the car mostly to myself save for one other passenger and a child who delightfully ran through the car with glee. It warms my heart to see children be children. With the right sense of adventure, they could grow up to be great businessmen like myself.

Some time passed, though I cannot say how long as I was caught up in such relaxful delight, and the lights went out and the train slowed to a stop inside one of the tunnels carved out of a mountain. I waited for what must have been perhaps thirty minutes when I decided to spark a match so that I might check the time. Why, it was past lunch! Not only had the locomotive not resumed course, but no one had come around to make my cheeseburger. Hours and hours I waited, and yet still no cheeseburger. Outrageous. By this time, I needed to relieve myself but could not find my way to the bathroom. I ended up doing what the ruffians do and stepped off of the locomotive to do my business. While mildly liberating, it was most undignified and embarrassing. Thankfully, it was exceedingly dark that no one could see me. Why, I couldn’t even see my own male part and am simply grateful that I did not urinate on my shoes.

It is now the second day and my neck is sore from sleeping in a train seat. I have missed my business arrangement and have not yet had my bath. I am very displeased. Why has your company done nothing about this great injustice? Surely you must have known something was up when your locomotive did not arrive in Bethany as scheduled. I have no doubt that it is the bureaucratic paperwork that is causing the delay. No doubt many forms have to be signed in triplicate to get anything done. Perhaps if you cared more about a strong work ethic than paper, we’d have been out of this mess shortly after it started.

I’m not demanding that you make this right. It is of my current opinion that there is nothing you can do to make this satisfactory. I expect a full refund when this whole ordeal is sorted out and I shall not be recommending your services to any of my colleagues ever.

Dissatisfied with your service,
Fieldcrest R. W. Wallace the Sixth

PS. I still have not consumed one of these much raved about cheeseburgers. What are you going to do about that?

Letters from Unsung Heroes: The Train – Bruce Thomas

Dear Sam

I hope this letter reaches you. I’m trapped aboard a train with many others and I fear for our lives. Considering it’s been two days and no one has shown up to help, I believe someone wants us to die. Allow me to recount the events that have transpired since I began my journey to West Hampshire.

When the train left Bethany roughly two days ago by my estimation, nothing seemed amiss. In fact, I recall enjoying a late coffee and English muffin in the dining car almost immediately after I got on board as I had missed breakfast. I took my time making sure to savor every last bite as I knew it would be the last I would get to eat until lunch time barring some fruit that is kept out for anyone who wants something to snack on. Aside from the one member of the wait staff who was attending to me, I cannot recall another soul in the dining car except for a small child who ran through excitedly and a rather plump mustachioed man reading the newspaper with his coffee. When I was finished, I left some change as a tip and made my wait to my seat in the car behind.

For a train with one hundred and ninety-six people on it (staff included according to the registry I later found) my car seemed surprisingly empty. I chalked it up to the train’s new “Scenic Car” at the rear which I’ve heard is absolutely breathtaking. It was all as well to me. It’d give me some quiet time with my newspaper. However, it was nearly halfway into the tunnel by my estimation that the train lost power and came to a stop. It’s wasn’t a sudden stop or even the train slowing down at the hand of the conductor. It just lost power and slowed down until it came to a full stop.

I waited quite some time before I eventually arose from my see. Though I could see nothing, I could hear people frightenedly returning from the Scenic Car, groping their way back to their seats. A few of them used lighters or matches. Some of the more prepared ones had a small hand flashlight that they used. There was a lot of talk and worry, though no one had gone into panic mode yet. As time passed, people gradually grew more and more annoyed and began bickering, though nothing led to any violence, not in my car at least. Eventually, when night came, or at least what we assume was night by checking a pocket watch, we all went down for a very uneasy sleep.

When we awoke, everyone was groggy and grumpy, though no one really had anything to say. Most people got up and stepped off the train where the air wasn’t so stuffy. In fact, there was a gentle coolness outside. Though we couldn’t see anything except by the few matches and cigarette glows, it was really refreshing. Holding up my lighter to the walls, I could see that this train tunnel wasn’t much of a tunnel. Instead of being something expertly built, it was literally just a hole carved through a mountain just big enough to get a train through with some tracks laid down. No smooth walls or ground to be found whatsoever. How anyone ever considered this tunnel finished was beyond me, but it’s been used for well over a hundred and fifty years, so who am I to judge. Still, one would think it would’ve at least been modernized for safety reasons.

As the day went on, or at least I think it was day, I slowly made my way towards the front of the train. The people in forward cars seems strangely relaxed to their situation. Trying to make the best of it I suppose. Better than terror and panic, that’s for sure. The front three cars of the train are for authorized personnel only, so I was pleasantly surprised when the first door to the restricted part of the train was unlocked.

 There were twenty-eight narrow beds built into the walls in this car which meant that this was the crew’s sleeping quarters during those really long journeys. The beds didn’t have any blankets or pillows or anything. They just had backpacks and personal belongings which leads me to believe that this car hasn’t been used for sleeping in quite a long time. Instead, it was just being used as a place for the crew to stow their stuff. I rummaged through a few of the backpacks. Found some snacks, a couple of flashlights, first aid kit, and some random junk. The flashlights would be handy as it meant I wouldn’t have to use my lighter to see all the time.

 The next car was clearly a break area. There was a small refrigeration unit, a table with some cards, some lockers, etc. Not much else. The next door led to the engine of the train, but it was locked. I cursed under my breath and went back to the sleeping quarters and began rummaging through everything for a key, but couldn’t find anything. Cursing again, I made my way back to the passenger car. A young girl was waiting outside by the door. She smiled at me as she chewed a piece of gum. Asked me if I had found anything. I handed her a candy bar and showed her a few flashlights. She had a sly way of telling through my disappointment that I wasn’t finished looking, but couldn’t get any further. I’m not really sure what it was, though she knew there was something else upfront that I couldn’t get to but wanted to. So she asked what’s stopping me. When I told her a locked door, she pulled a couple of bobby pins from behind her ears. They weren’t holding her hair in place which lead me to believe she had skills that were less than reputable. Still, I was glad she had them.

After going back in, she began to work at picking the lock of the door to the engine right away. She asked me not to point the flashlight at it as it would only distract her. Upon inquiring where she learned to do this sort of thing, she just smiled at me and winked without ever slowing down. I asked her for her name. She told me Nina and that was it. And almost immediately, the door opened.

We stepped inside and pointed the flashlight to see a body slouched awkwardly over the controls. It was the engineer. He was dead. It looked like the side of his head had been slammed into the side of the wall with enough force to kill him. Inspecting the trauma, his head was actually quite soft at the point of impact and I could feel little pieces of bone sliding around underneath his skin. Strangely, there was no blood, broken flesh or bruising. It was as though the bone on one side of his skull just suddenly shattered inside of his head and killed him. I honestly don’t know what could kill a man in such a way and quite frankly, I don’t know if I want to find out.

As I returned to the front with Nina, I decided to keep quiet about what I saw. No telling how the others would react to such news. The Postman will be taking my letter to you. I feel it my duty to attempt to maintain the safety of the other passengers here despite what little good it’ll probably end up doing. Should you receive this, send help.

Regards

Bruce Thomas

Letters from Unsung Heroes: The Train – Gunther

Martin,

I believe I watched a man die yesterday. He was just sitting there in the dark, the only light coming from the match of the person next to him trying to see out the window. It was a rather frightening thing to see. He was just sitting there peaceably to himself with his hands folded in his lap when suddenly, his entire body tensed up and his eyes rolled back into his head. His mouth opened wide as if to gasp but no sound came out. Then his body just slumped back into his seat and he hasn’t moved since. The bastard sitting next to him didn’t even seem to notice. Just kept looking out the window until the matched burned to and scorched the tips of his fingers. After that, I couldn’t see anything.

I fear this train ride may be my undoing, Martin. We’ve been stranded in this blasted tunnel for two whole days now. Why hasn’t anyone come yet? Bah! It’s all rubbish now, isn’t it? Well, I’m not waiting to die. There’s a letter carrier here who’s decided to venture out of the tunnel and get help. He’s also offered to deliver any letters people might have so that their friends and what not may know what’s going on. I’ve offered my company to the bloke. The way I see it, I don’t want to die here with the rest of the poor sops and if something really terrible has come, well, he’s gonna need some help. It’s a win-win for the both of us really. Now I’m just waiting for him to tell me he’s ready and we’ll be off.

Martin, it fucking spooky out here, I have to tell you. I’m standing outside the train writing this letter by the light of my cigar. It so quiet that you can hear a drop of water fall from much further down the tunnel. You’d think I’d be able to hear all the people on the train moving around and talking, but really they’re not doing much of anything. Aside from the occasional polite conversation, it’s extremely quiet. It’s as though some uncomfortable acceptance has overtaken them. All the more reason for me to get the fuck out of here. I seriously don’t want to be around when whatever happens happens.

Well, looks like he’s coming, so I’d best put this away. Nice! Looks like he managed to get his hands on a flashlight. This little walk’s going to be easier than I thought. Hope to see you on the other side, mate.

-Gunther

Letters from Unsung Heroes: The Train – unsigned

Dear mother,

I am right now on the train to grandmother’s house. A splendid vehicle this is. Did you know that trains have dining tables? Really, they do. It’s a special car where you go to eat. Have you ever eaten in a vehicle, mother? I plan I shall do so come noon. That’s when the schedule says they serve lunch.

I can’t wait to tell grandmother all about my train ride. I love looking out the windows to the countryside. It’s so beautiful to look at. Especially on such a sunny day like today.

Wow! We just entered a tunnel. It’s so neat and dark outside the windows yet the lights make it so cheerful inside. I want to live on a train, mother. I can’t imagine a better way to live.

<unsigned>