Railroad car, Europe. We're sleeping stretched across three seats each, shoes off, moving at speed through the early morning. Awaken: she's not there. Trouble, maybe. There's alcohol for sale on this train. As you roll through an urban, industrial neighborhood, you walk the aisles seeking carefully where she's gone.
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© 2002-2012 Mark Phillips.
All rights reserved.
This writing is fiction. Please don't confuse it with reality.