A Novel Train Ride

I am eye-deep in a story, a timeless place that only happens now. The view from the train window is as still as a mountain – I may be reading too fast. The speed of my eyes takes time to emerge from the pulp and print. The tale grips until my feet fill other shoes. A tense spy novel tugs at identity. There’s a kid kicking, thumping the back of my seat, blood pressure goes into hyperdrive, knuckles blanch as if to grip the brake of a speeding train. The page reveals - words beguile. I am flying on a private jet to Sweden while wrestling with a dilemma, torn as I am between a hitman’s conscience and a pragmatic professionalism. Book in hands I must soon parachute gently down to a platform. The train is slowing, people wrangle children and bags, but not the seat-kicking kid, he is a very bad agent that should have listened to his mom. Now he’s kicking the target, a victim that’s splayed-out on a Swedish train station. I creep up behind him Cyanide dart, or Karate chop? A page turning moment for sure.