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A Trying Circumstance

and my escape from it

By Lucia LinnPublished 2 years ago 3 min read
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A Trying Circumstance
Photo by Jacek Pobłocki on Unsplash

When I had closed my eyes, I had been on my back, flopped on the deliciously fuzzy living room carpet in my humble abode, exhausted from the tremendous effort of rolling over over and over again for the big womens with whom my mother was well acquainted. It was trying work, but it had earned many coos and tummy tickles so I felt my rest was well deserved.

I should have known something was wrong the moment I regained consciousness, even before I visually observed my surroundings. My stomach jiggled with vibrations and my head bobbed side to side. I was in motion.

I opened my eyes and mouth in stunned shock. I wasn’t home. I was somewhere novel and entirely foreign. It was an open space of great magnitude, full of unknown people bustling around. A cacophony of unintelligible chatter assaulted my ears and the air was overheated and breezy with the movement of the crowds.

Giant doorways lined the walls and swallowed hordes of smiling big humans and spat them out again carrying colorful packages. None of them were my mother.

Worst of all, was where I sat, powerless to leave. A jarringly vermillion plastic seat held me, sticky and warm, no doubt from its last occupant. The seat, in turn, was held in a child-sized container, sickeningly yellow. More boxes were before me, holding more trapped children, some howling in terror and others in delight. I had seen a contraption like this before. A toy at home. My mother figure had called it a… train.

I was in a train. Far bigger than the toys I had witnessed before, although it was still too compact to hold a mother-sized human. Rumbling along an elliptical track in this ghastly locale. I had no ticket, no recollection of how I had come to be here, and no idea when it would stop.

But I kept my calm. A wide eyed, terrified calm, to be honest. But I didn’t cry. I could roll over. I was no longer the whimpering child of my youth. As weak as my grip was, I clutched to the sides of my box with a ferociousness I did not know I had in me. I flopped my head around, scanning my surroundings for some hope of escape. A few big people stopped and pointed, laughing. I grit my gums. I could not be swayed by their mockery.

The train ahead of me began to turn, my fellow riders slid on their seats. I wondered if they shared my confusion. How many of these passengers shared my fate? How many had closed their eyes to find themselves trapped on a strange and bizarre trip without supplies?

I braced myself for the turn. But the plastic was slick where I held it and my fingers were short and incapable of the task at hand. The turn tugged me loose and I slid hard into the outer wall of my train car. My substantial stomach hit the wall and I must confess that I shed a few tears, less for the pain but more for the helpless trauma of the situation.

Ahead of me, a big kid took the situation into her own hands. Gripping the wall of her train car, she dove head first over the side towards freedom. Her blonde, pig tailed head made first contact with the shiny ground. She let loose a scream and flopped across the floor in pain.

Was it worth it? That gruesome escape? I had to do something.

Out of nowhere, a blonde big person emerged and gathered up the screaming girl.

“Mommy!” she yelled.

I started. If I fell, would this crowd produce my own mother? Maybe it was the screaming that did it. The train turned again and the breath was knocked out of me. I had to make a decision. To make some action. Throwing my head back, I let loose a scream beyond any I had yet been able to accomplish. The train shook with the strength of my yell.

I screamed and wailed and howled until my body was empty of breath. My body collapsed with the effort, tears running down my cheeks.

But even as I cried, I heard a familiar voice and felt familiar hands. I was lifted from my prison and felt warmth envelope me and fingers caress my head. My mother had come. My cries had worked.

I closed my eyes.

Humor
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About the Creator

Lucia Linn

”Some days I feel like playing it smooth and some days I feel like playing it like a waffle iron.” -Raymond Chandler

Bits of fantasy and poetry and whatnot here, comedic comics on Instagram @mostlymecomics

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