the trip

You are gently rocked to consciousness by the stirrings of the train. The seats next to you are empty, as are the majority of other seats.

You head still hangs in the blurry space between sleep and wake. A hot blue sky leaves one side of your head hot and tingling, and you peel it away from the leather seat. The seats throughout the train car face at strange angles. Although you sit facing forward against the right side, a small group of seats a few rows behind you face towards each other. If it wasn't for the reflection in the glass at the front of the car, you wouldn't have had the energy to even notice. A colorful steel sign barrels down the side of the train bearing crossed feathers and the name "Tickleopolis."

That's right. Tickleopolis. The tickling capitol of the known world. Now that you're beginning to wake up, what the hell are you?

Written by an anonymous author

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