timelord4
The never on time lord
Fatal Phone
All crits welcome and appreciated ~ Approx. 700
The grit filled wind scoured a path across the train tracks, gathering momentum as it raced along the platform, dying as it passed from the station.
Mark shielded his eyes and looked up at the flashing timetable. “Brown line: Next train departing from platform 2. Limited stops to Ealing Broadway.” He glanced over at the platform clock. Nine minutes to go.
His fingers returned to their tattooing of the bench seat; it was a habit that made him seem nervous, though in fact it was quite the opposite. Mark was bored. His whole life was boring. A tired relationship, souring with the passing of time, work colleagues that appeared more like cut-and-paste than real figures, a mother that brought over baskets of plastic fruit. Boring!
‘Do you believe in fate?’
Mark jumped. He hadn’t heard the woman walk up, hadn’t caught the musky scent that now flooded his senses. He stiffened, flushed at the disturbingly blue eyes that remained steady on him.
‘What?’ he mumbled, trying to remember what had been said.
‘Does it excite you, the thought of making love to a perfect stranger?’
Scarlet finger-nails brushed across his cheek and he felt himself stir. She was exquisite, standing over him in her expensive-cut suit, with just enough cleavage to suggest at further pleasures - hidden secrets begging to be explored. His fingers stopped their drumming.
A loudspeaker chimed. “Pink line. Next train from platform 1. All stops to Hammersmith. First stop Mile End, then Stepney Green, and Whitechapel and…”
The woman hesitated; her pink tongue ran across lush lips. As if to come to a conclusion, she pulled a mobile from her purse and tossed it to him. Pointing a slender finger at the phone she murmured, ‘If you believe in fate, then that is your destiny.’ Her smile broke over him like a whispered promise.
God she’s beautiful! Mark thought, easing himself on the bench in effort to adjust his obvious stirrings.
Leaning forward she brushed her lips against his, pressing closer to sigh softly in his ear. ‘Would you die for me?’
He felt her heat; aching to be filled, aching for release. Unbidden, his arms came out in embrace. She turned abruptly and crossed to the arriving train on platform 1, pausing to look over her shoulder. Melancholy blanked her features, a sadness that permeated and blemished the perfection that she symbolized.
Mark hastily stood, his blood on fire. He had never wanted this badly before. His mouth tasted of her, caused a lump in his throat that savoured of lust, slid to the depths of him and blossomed with desire.
But thinking had enslaved his movements and he could only watch as the train moved slowly away from the station, her finger-tips pressed against her lips in a silent farewell. Yes! he screamed inside his head.
The phone rang.
Mark fumbled with the lid and flipped it open. The message read. “Follow your destiny. Fate is the final resting place of destiny.”
What the…? She must want me to follow her. She wants me!
An urgency enveloped him and he looked at his watch. One minute before his train arrived. First stop Whitechapel. Hers makes a couple of stops before Whitechapel. He could beat her there! Yes!
It never dawned on him the full implication of the message, it never would. Fate was a waiting lady; destiny was a run-away train.
Hurrying into the carriage, Mark bumped into a pretty girl alighting to the platform. His arm caught against her bright yellow and black back-pack and on impulse he stopped her. ‘Do you believe in fate?’
She edged away, eyeing him suspiciously.
‘Never mind,’ he smiled. ‘Here, take this and follow your destiny.’ He tossed her the phone and smiled. ‘It’s my destiny that I follow now and fate is my destination.’
He laughed and the girl stepped back startled. She glanced up at him, then down at the phone in her hand. Before she could answer, the door hissed closed and the train moved away; through the rear window she could see his unmoving figure smiling back at her.
The phone rang.
The message read: “Fate and destiny will collide at Whitechapel. One survivor.”
Crank! Angrily she tossed the phone into a bin, thinking nothing more of it as she crossed the platform for her connecting train to Hammersmith.
All crits welcome and appreciated ~ Approx. 700
The grit filled wind scoured a path across the train tracks, gathering momentum as it raced along the platform, dying as it passed from the station.
Mark shielded his eyes and looked up at the flashing timetable. “Brown line: Next train departing from platform 2. Limited stops to Ealing Broadway.” He glanced over at the platform clock. Nine minutes to go.
His fingers returned to their tattooing of the bench seat; it was a habit that made him seem nervous, though in fact it was quite the opposite. Mark was bored. His whole life was boring. A tired relationship, souring with the passing of time, work colleagues that appeared more like cut-and-paste than real figures, a mother that brought over baskets of plastic fruit. Boring!
‘Do you believe in fate?’
Mark jumped. He hadn’t heard the woman walk up, hadn’t caught the musky scent that now flooded his senses. He stiffened, flushed at the disturbingly blue eyes that remained steady on him.
‘What?’ he mumbled, trying to remember what had been said.
‘Does it excite you, the thought of making love to a perfect stranger?’
Scarlet finger-nails brushed across his cheek and he felt himself stir. She was exquisite, standing over him in her expensive-cut suit, with just enough cleavage to suggest at further pleasures - hidden secrets begging to be explored. His fingers stopped their drumming.
A loudspeaker chimed. “Pink line. Next train from platform 1. All stops to Hammersmith. First stop Mile End, then Stepney Green, and Whitechapel and…”
The woman hesitated; her pink tongue ran across lush lips. As if to come to a conclusion, she pulled a mobile from her purse and tossed it to him. Pointing a slender finger at the phone she murmured, ‘If you believe in fate, then that is your destiny.’ Her smile broke over him like a whispered promise.
God she’s beautiful! Mark thought, easing himself on the bench in effort to adjust his obvious stirrings.
Leaning forward she brushed her lips against his, pressing closer to sigh softly in his ear. ‘Would you die for me?’
He felt her heat; aching to be filled, aching for release. Unbidden, his arms came out in embrace. She turned abruptly and crossed to the arriving train on platform 1, pausing to look over her shoulder. Melancholy blanked her features, a sadness that permeated and blemished the perfection that she symbolized.
Mark hastily stood, his blood on fire. He had never wanted this badly before. His mouth tasted of her, caused a lump in his throat that savoured of lust, slid to the depths of him and blossomed with desire.
But thinking had enslaved his movements and he could only watch as the train moved slowly away from the station, her finger-tips pressed against her lips in a silent farewell. Yes! he screamed inside his head.
#
The phone rang.
Mark fumbled with the lid and flipped it open. The message read. “Follow your destiny. Fate is the final resting place of destiny.”
What the…? She must want me to follow her. She wants me!
An urgency enveloped him and he looked at his watch. One minute before his train arrived. First stop Whitechapel. Hers makes a couple of stops before Whitechapel. He could beat her there! Yes!
It never dawned on him the full implication of the message, it never would. Fate was a waiting lady; destiny was a run-away train.
#
Hurrying into the carriage, Mark bumped into a pretty girl alighting to the platform. His arm caught against her bright yellow and black back-pack and on impulse he stopped her. ‘Do you believe in fate?’
She edged away, eyeing him suspiciously.
‘Never mind,’ he smiled. ‘Here, take this and follow your destiny.’ He tossed her the phone and smiled. ‘It’s my destiny that I follow now and fate is my destination.’
He laughed and the girl stepped back startled. She glanced up at him, then down at the phone in her hand. Before she could answer, the door hissed closed and the train moved away; through the rear window she could see his unmoving figure smiling back at her.
#
The phone rang.
The message read: “Fate and destiny will collide at Whitechapel. One survivor.”
Crank! Angrily she tossed the phone into a bin, thinking nothing more of it as she crossed the platform for her connecting train to Hammersmith.
And especially coming through tannoys ~ they're so tinny.
