A Place to Put Things

The story this world was created for didn’t pan out, but I still love it. So I sent a visitor from our world to this one, who is not delighted to find that instead of a clear conflict between good and evil, she is confronted with something very different.

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The priest led the way into the great hall. “It is strange to me,” he said chattily, “that you do not know the gods. Surely there is no place so far that the gods do not hold sway there.”

The stranger cleared her throat. “I do not… know that I do not,” she said carefully. “By other names, or seemings, perhaps… but I would know them as you know them.”

“Ah, I see. Yes, that I can understand.” The priest smiled. With his long grey hair and beard flowing over a white robe, he looked like a small, spare saint himself, genial and contented. “Then I will tell it to you from the beginning.” He walked up the length of the hall, and gestured to the two statues that stood on either side of the great altar, with the gold-leaf sun and hammered silver moon on the wall above it.

“There are eight gods,” he said, and his voice settled into the cadence of one repeating an old teaching. “And no one of the eight stands alone, but always as one of a pair. First among the gods stand Elu and Surm, whose aspects are those of Life and Death. There are those who say that they are the parents of the other gods, and others who say that they are only the oldest, but all that the others are springs ultimately from them.”

“I see.” The stranger looked up at the statue on the left, who stood by the golden sun. “Elu… life… is perhaps the one I know as the Mother.”

“Yes, for all life comes from a mother.” The priest nodded, also gazing up at the statue. It was beautifully crafted, perhaps twice as tall as the stranger, a vivid portrayal of a woman of middle years, with the rounded belly and hips of children borne, the plump limbs of health and plenty, lines of wisdom and of humour on her face. She wore a loose robe, and a crown of leaves and flowers on her long hair, and fruit and grain filled the basket in her hands. “Elu brings life, and all that lives, from the greatest beast to the smallest, from the richest fruit to the smallest seed, from humankind to a flower that blooms and dies in a single day.”

He turned to the other statue, Surm. This was a man, also of middle years, but he wore armour, and carried a bow in his hand. “And Surm, her opposite and equal, who closes the circle. Where there is life, there must also be death, and Surm rules over all forms of death. He is a warrior, and a hunter, and also a healer, as is Elu, for the healer stands between life and death. Surm is the ending, as Elu is the beginning, but in truth they are the two halves of a circle, for from death life comes again, and from life death is born.” He gestured up at the sun and moon. “Elu is the first of what we name the sunward four, and Surm of the moonward, for the sun and the moon, like the gods, are a pair, opposite and yet united.”

“I see. Who comes next?”

“Of the other three pairs, the order in which they stand varies. They are all of equal status and importance, as gods, but in different times and places some may take a greater hand than others.” The priest moved back a few paces. “Here, the second pair are those we call Kord, the sunward, who represents order and creation, and Kaos, the moonward, who represents chaos and destruction.”

The stranger looked from Kord, a statue of a man holding a chisel and a measuring rod, his robes perfect, his braids as straight as the rod, to Kaos, a woman all disorder, from her wild curls to her ragged motley to her very pose – while Kord stood erect, Kaos was dancing, one foot raised, ribbons flying about her. “Good and evil?” the stranger asked, frowning.

“No, order and chaos.” The priest frowned too. “All the gods have their aspects of both good and evil, of course. Elu creates life, and she is the mother of the devouring wolf or bear just as she is of the lamb or the kid. Surm brings death on the battlefield, but also peace after long life and ease after suffering. Kord is the god of order, of precision, of law and of rule, of measurement and of numbers. But Kord is a sterile god, and life does not thrive under his governance.” He turned to wild, laughing Kaos. “Kaos reigns over destruction, it is true, but not all forms of disorder are destructive. She is the song of the bird and the frisking of a foal as well as the destruction of the earthquake or the tidal wave, and she rules over weather both good and bad. She also rules the human heart, its loves and hates, and she brings both joy and sorrow.”

“I see.” The stranger did not sound as if she saw, but she looked thoughtfully at Kord and Kaos before they moved on to the next pair.

“On the sunward side, Sugulahna, the neighbour, the kinswoman, the ally, the friend, the loyal one.” This statue was young and vigorous, with a cheerful smile. She wore a simple tunic, and held out an open hand. “Sugulahna is the goddess of unity, of trust, of loyalty. When she stands with her brother Kord, they watch over cities and towns, and places where many people must live together in order and harmony. With Kaos, she signifies love and friendship, the ties of family and the bonds of loyalty. In her benign aspect, she is generosity and faith. But turned aside, she is the selfish partner, the treacherous lover, the ungrateful child, the usurper and betrayer. She is all that is best and worst in those around us.”

“One who can give great pain and great joy,” the stranger commented.

“None can give greater.” The priest nodded solemnly. “And on the moonward side stands Vu’uras, who is often called ‘the Stranger’.” The statue could hardly be called a statue, exactly, for no face or clear form could be discerned under the enveloping robes that might as easily have covered a clothing-stand as a human figure. The only sign of the body underneath was a single slender hand extending from a sleeve to clasp a traveller’s staff. “The Stranger is the Other, the traveller, the foreigner. The Stranger, when standing with Kord, is the diplomat, the envoy, the spy. With Kaos, the chance-met helper or kindly passer-by… or the bandit. The Stranger is sexless and unknowable, and yet the Stranger delights in the sharing of knowledge.”

The stranger smiled slightly. “Like me. A stranger chance-come, who knows nothing but wishes to learn?”

“Indeed, just like.” The priest moved on to the last pair of statues. “Here you see, on the sunward side, Teadmised, who is the god of knowledge and learning. Teachers, scholars, and the wise are all in his domain, and he is said to have created all means of record-keeping, from wall paintings and lore songs and tally marks to the written word.” He beamed up at the statue. Like the priest, Teadmised was an old man, long-bearded and a little stooped, with a lean, kindly face. He was wrapped in a long robe with a stole, and carried in his hands a scroll and a brush. “Teadmised is the god of wisdom. His benign aspect brings invention, and art, and joy, but his reverse is deception, and error, and lies.”

He turned to gesture at the moonward goddess. “This is his sister Salahdused, who rules over mystery, and secrets, and the unknown. Vu’uras and Surm’s realms both overlap with hers, for death and the stranger both partake of the unknown. Salahdused is the hardest of all the gods to understand, by her very nature, and thus is most often the one distrusted, or considered ‘evil’ as you put it.” He patted the base of the statue. It portrayed another hooded figure, but unlike the Stranger’s, this hood did not conceal a slyly smiling face, and the sleeves of the robe fell back to show slender arms, one hand raising a lighted lamp, the other cradling a wrapped bundle against her hip. “Certainly the unknown can be dangerous, and secrets can wound. Her domain is darkness and the sea, hidden caves and deep water and secret places, all dangerous to humankind. And yet she is also the goddess of luck, which is its own kind of mystery. She can bring ruin and betrayal and death, but she is also the unknown friend, good fortune unlooked for, and aid when all hope is lost.” His voice softened. “It is Salahdused who brings misfortune, and hope, and to whom we all turn at last, with curse or with plea. And when her father Surm comes, to guide the dead onward, it is Salahdused who holds up the lamp to light the way.”

“A goddess we all need, though we may not always be grateful.” The stranger looked up and down the lines again. “They are *all* the known and the unknown, are they not? On the sunward side, in the light of day, stand Life, Order, Family and Knowledge. On the moonward side, Death, Chaos, the Stranger, and Mystery.”

“Yes, exactly!” The priest sounded pleased. “Not many people see that, without being told. That is why they are ordered so. Some people think it is because the sunward are kindlier, but it is not so. It is only that they stand for what we understand. And under the moon, which waxes and wanes, stand the gods who rule over the unpredictable and unknown.”

“Most people… where I come from… equate light with good, and darkness with evil.” The stranger tugged absently on her braid. “But your gods are… more complicated than that.”

“Good and evil are not real things,” the priest said simply. The stranger looked at him, and he smiled gently. “I do not mean that they do not exist, but they are not… of the world. Birth, life, is real. Death is real. They exist, they have substance. A measuring rod or the wildly rolling debris of an avalanche are real. Family is real. Strangers are real. A story or a written word are real things, as are the sea and caves and deep water, be they understood or not. And all of those things may bring about good or evil, depending on circumstances. They can be used for good or evil. But good and evil are not, in themselves, real things.”

She nodded slowly, looking at the gods. “So to you… good and evil are in the effects. The aspects. The intent. Not… powers, in themselves.”

“Yes, you understand.” The Priest bent to pick up a dead leaf from the ground, which might have fallen from a shawl, or blown in through one of the high windows. “Take this leaf. If it fell on a stony street, it might grow wet, and slip under a foot, and cause injury or death. If it fell on barren ground, in its decay it would render the ground a little less barren. Here on the floor of the temple, it might cause additional trouble to a sweeper… or provide a priest with a timely example, thus doing me, and you, good.” He smiled. “But the leaf’s nature does not change. It is just a leaf. How, in its falling, it affects others… that depends entirely on circumstance.”

“I see.” This time, she sounded as if she did understand, and she took the leaf and held it gently. “And what of people, priest? Are they not good or evil?”

“Of course they are. Mostly one, or mostly the other, or more often a mixture of both in some degree.” The priest shrugged. “But that a matter of choice, and of intention, and even then it is very rare that an action does not have effects both good and bad, whatever the intention. To come upon a man robbing another man, and to intervene – well, from the point of view of the man who was being robbed, that is a good action. From the point of view of the robber, it is a bad one.” He smiled serenely. “As the proverb says, the storm that sinks a ship may bring rain to the fields.”

The stranger was silent for a time, seeming to consider, and the priest waited patiently. When at last she spoke, there was a note of frustration in her voice. “I have never known a faith, or gods, so adamantly to set their faces against certainty.”

The priest laughed. “Oh, if it is certainty you want, Kord is in accord with you. He loves certainty. One will always be one, and a square will always be a square. An arch correctly made will not fall, and a law followed will bring order. There’s great comfort in certainty! But certainty is the enemy of growth, and invention, and change, and so Kaos dances through Kord’s order, bringing destruction and growth and change.” He folded his hands over his belly and looked up at the sun and moon on the wall, his voice gentling. “I think that what you are seeking is not certainty but simplicity. An easy answer. The good and the evil. But what is real is never simple, and the gods least of all. All we mere mortals can do is the best we can, with what we have.”

The stranger sighed. “I know that you are right,” she said. “But the other would be easier.”

1. Most people that submit to literary journals are cis white men. We know this because our journal has an anonymous survey about demographics for people that submit.

2. Most things that get submitted to the creative non fiction section are on the level of middle school "What I did over the summer" essays.

There is so much work from marginalized narratives in litmags these days — people lament there is no representation in media, but that disregards the progress and diversity of the works of editors and writers who help make these litmags possible. 

There is representation, and it is flourishing. They are waiting to be read. 

The Lumiere Review compiles a list of submission opportunities every month, and it are always very useful: 

https://lumierereview.com/sub-sep-oct-2021

List of Litmags that Specifically Look for Work from Marginalized Creators or is Run by Marginalized Creators:

Warning Lines: https://warninglines.com/

With Confetti: https://with-confetti.com/

Giving Room Magazine: http://www.givingroommag.com/

The Bitchin’ Kitsch: https://www.talbot-heindl.com/

Tealight Press: https://www.tealightpress.com/

Tipping the Scales: https://www.tippingthescalesjournal.co.uk/

The Winnow Magazine: https://www.thewinnowmagazine.com/

perhappened: https://www.perhappened.com/

AZE Journal: https://azejournal.com/

Honeyfire Lit: https://honeyfirelit.com/

and so much more!!

(And even if some litmags’ mission statement isn’t specifically for marginalized creators, they will always welcome these narratives.)

For the way I write at least, there are two distinct phases: Creative and Mechanical.

The Creative phase is the wild, explosive one where new ideas churn and interplay until a cohesive story thread can be drawn out and locked in. Creative phase progress is mostly brainstorms. It's unbounded fun and often takes the form of me pacing around talking out loud to keep my thoughts in order, occasionally maniacally laughing and calling myself a shining golden god. 10/10 would recommend.

The Mechanical phase is turning that story thread into something anyone else can actually read. It's a lot slower. Mechanical progress includes ensuring that the new story doesn't open up plotholes in the old stuff, but for the most part it's things like top-down plotting, pacing adjustments, dialogue polish and 100% of the actual art. The Mechanical phase is more methodical and less exciting than the Creative Phase, but it's necessary to ensure the execution of the ideas actually do them justice. Art is the communication of ideas; an idea without that communication is just a fun thing to rotate in your head.

While the Mechanical phase is always deliberate, the Creative phase, being linked to such uncontrollable things as artistic inspiration, has a tendency to pop back up at random times. Unexpected Big Swings are what happens when the Creative phase pops back in unbidden in the middle of the Mechanical phase and the new chunk of storytelling it drops in my lap is more interesting than what I had planned originally.

I think it happens with such inconvenient timing in part because the Mechanical phase can be tedious. The creative mind wants stimulation, so it seeks to entertain itself with newness; and then, when faced with a choice between what I've already planned and thought through a hundred times versus a NEW wild thing, the new idea will be more sparkly and appealing. It'll also usually add some complication and convolution to a stretch of story that was initially simple. It's like, if the original plan I come up with is a straight length of string connecting two points of solid plot, the process of mechanically traversing that string to make it into a finalized comic allows me to notice points where it'd look a lot better if I tangled that string up.

That doesn't always mean the new idea is better than the original plan! Great ideas still need to work in the mechanial execution before they become good stories, and sometimes a great idea would be too much of a big swing and destabilize the rest of the already-constructed narrative. It's important to test the new idea in the context of the rest of the already-solidly-woven plan.

I have asked this myself in the past and never gotten an answer.

It became pretty standard jargon, as I understand, to disambiguate when writing to other humans. First phys!Steve vs the Steve right next to you, just like you were taking to the machine, then getting looser (as jargon does) to reference, say, bearded!Steve vs bald!Steve.

and that's the same attitude that underlies all the 'the goal of fanfic is to file of the serial numbers and publish it' or 'fanfic isn't real writing because real writing is novels and fanfic is usually structurally so different from a novel' type of takes come from.

this assumption that the medium is largely coincidental to the story being told

when that's just not true.

the very best adaptations always change things, because mediums are not interchangeable, and they fundamentally shape the stories told in them.

there are things you can do in fanfic that are simply not possible in a traditional novel, because you're starting from that possition of love and knowledge, and because you aren't bound by the need to be canon compliant, so you can ask questions like 'if these characters met in other lives, under different circumstances, what would they be like? how different would they be? how much of what makes them them is tied to the circumstances they found themselves in?' or 'what was it like to not be the heroes, to not be actively involved in the cool exciting bits? what was it like to be a minor character, left behind to deal with the consequences' because your audience is already invested, they'll show up for questions like that in a way a movie or novel or tv audience wouldn't.

there are things you can do in a podcast or radio play that are not possible in visual mediums like film or tv, because you're relying on the audiences imagination. there's a reason the best radio comedy tends to be surreal, and the best podcasts tend to be horror, those are both genres that thrive when the audience's imagination is allowed to fill in blanks.

there are things you can do on TV that are not possible in a novel or a movie. the way WandaVision completely changed its visual style with each episode is something that would not work in any other genre, but it's essential to the story. TV usually exists in very defined seasons, but cannot traditionally be consumed all in one go, which is not true of almost any other medium, and that dictates a specific type of pacing. combine that with the fact that it's a visual medium, and you get something like the overarching stories of the 9th Doctor's season of Doctor Who. No other medium could have delivered the resolution to that storyline as effectively.

Video games can force the audience to consider their own part in events. No movie could do what Spec Ops did, when it gives you a button prompt to commit a war crime, and then turns around and asks you why? why did you do that? was it too easy? do you think it felt like this when the US government committed the exact same war crime within living memory? Was it easy then too? A novel or a movie could show you walker doing this terrible thing, but it could never convey the point with the same effective simplicity, and it could never make you the audience feel culpable. only the author is responsible for the actions of the characters in a novel, but in a game, it's the audience who bears that responsibility, and that allows for moral questions other mediums struggle to effectively convey.

Comics can tell stories that take three decades and ten different writers to tell. Movies can use silence more effectively than any other medium because cinemas give you a captive audience and close-ups means you can reliably assume they can see everything that's happening (unlike theatre, which can use silence, but can't assume everyone has a good view). Theatre provides real time audience interactivity and a very special and unique kind of suspension of disbelief. Professional wrestling can tell ongoing stories in real time over years or decades, and walk the line between fiction and reality. Novels can immerse you more fully in one person's view of the world than any other medium (which also allows for information to be hidden from the reader without it feeling cheap the way it can when a movie does the same thing). Live oral storytelling allows the story to be adapted on the fly to fit audience reactions, allows for infinite variations of the same story, because no two tellings will ever be identical.

If you find a road that's oddly straight out in the countryside, chances are it was originally a Roman road. Several Major roads and sections of motorway follow the route of Roman Roads. There's a Roman Road that goes under the end of my street, part of it is still in use.

Every hour, on the hour, BBC radio 4 plays a series of beeps that tell you when it's exactly on the hour so you can set your clocks and watches.

We have a TV show made for Amateur Astronomers that has been going on since 1957. They cover major events and discoveries in Astronomy.

We have a Gameshow called Countdown wherein people take semi random letters and try create the longest word they can from it, and then take semi random numbers and try to use them to get to a random number. It is one of the Longest running and popular daytime gameshows and is a national treasure.

In Scotland, a lot of our chip shops were/are opened by Italians or people of Italian descent, so you can also get pizza there. Haggis pizza is a common menu item and it slaps.

The controllers in charge of the power grid have to watch every major soap opera and sports event because when the event ends or goes to commercial break, so many people get up to go make a cup of tea it risks a blackout, so they have to use Pumped storage stations to generate more power. There's one of these power stations near Wales's Highest Mountain and one at Loch Ness.

Every major channel rehearses for the death of the current monarch so they don't fuck it up. Under the news desk at the BBC, there's a black tie for the men and a black cardigan for the women that they put on if a major royal dies. You can see this happen if you watch the footage.

The government announces tests of the EAS system in advance so people know that A) it's a test, don't panic and B) so people with hidden phones (like abused spouses) can turn them off.

Our lifeboat and lifeguard service, The Royal National Lifeboat Institution, is completely volunteer run and funded through donations. Volunteers have to have pagers on them that ring if they're called up so they can run to the boats and rescue people. They're often in remote areas, and they're a common charity to raise money for because everyone agrees that they're not just heroic, but based as all fuck.

Most major supermarkets deliver, and by that I don't mean "you can send a gig-worker to do your shopping", I mean Tesco, Sainsbury's, Iceland and ASDA all have fleets of official trucks where you can do your shopping online, a supermarket worker picks your stuff for you, and at a designated time someone comes and delivers your shopping. They're even a common site in rural areas.

It's a Christmas tradition to go to your local theater to see a Pantomime, which is basically a retelling of a fairy tale done by drag queens aimed at children, but with jokes for the adults and modern cultural references. Famous actors will often take part in these shows. It's a beloved Christmas tradition that's illegal in Tennessee.

Ohhh good point @sweetlyfez , a thing about pantomime is that there’s specific call-and-responses. Children are trained to shout things at the actors at specific points, like if someone is creeping up behind a character, the audience all go “it’s behind you!” in a slightly creepily unified chorus. Like, the tone and cadence are always perfectly consistent.

But a thing about the UK is that people a) will show up to the opening of an envelope, b) will make the HELL out of a tradition or ritual. If it happens three times, it’s an official local ritual.

Rituals always contain a tremendous reliance on everyone’s willingness to participate and suspend cringe. Like the panto call-and-response, people are often surprisingly willing to do it.

So you can get a surprising number of people to do bonkers unified things like “hold hands with strangers and dance around a person dressed as a Green Man”. There was a “clap for the NHS” thing in lockdown (cringe, annoying) but people were willing. There’s a local ritual that involves stomping around a local apple orchard, wassailing it, and hanging toast on the branches. Everyone is tremendously engaged and serious about this. Crowds are generally quite willing to turn up and shout unified chants. During right-wing property vandalising outbreaks there were far more people turning up in anti-fash defence than there ever were fash, but what was most amusing about it was that anti-fash brought bands and snacks. Like within thirty minutes of people being outside systematically, there will start being self-organised predictable small Behaviours. When the shed blew down on my allotment, a collection of elderly people righted it and repaired it and brewed tea about it in about 30 minutes, including the time it took to stand around congratulating each other.

You can genuinely say, “turn up at 3 pm to a muddy field, we’re all going to scream at the sky. No, that’s it, literally that’s all I’m offering” and get 100 people in frigid winter to race willingly to a muddy field in awful weather with flasks of tea, alcohol, picnics, an impromptu cricket game, several more guests than you expected, and a really startling total willingness to scream like fools at the sky. Like YEAH SKY SCREAMING TIME. Let’s do it every Thursday at 4!!! And the thing is you’ll find yourself being like “oh man. I love Sky Screaming Time actually.”

The Punch & Judy Show, for the uninitiated, is a puppet show performed almost exclusively on the beach. It's generally free to attend but there's usually someone with a hat who stands there at the end and gives the adults pointed looks (kids love being given coins to put in hats so you have a double incentive to tip your performer). The show I used to go to as a kid (which still runs!) sells finger puppets of all the characters at the end of the show, as well, to help make sure they can keep going.

The show itself centres around Mr Punch, an awful man with a big stick, his wife Judy, and usually some assortment of a policeman, their baby, Toby the dog, a crocodile, and the devil (worth noting that in a number of rural traditions in England, the Devil is more of an occasional nuisance than Almighty Corruptor - less "The devil is here and my immortal soul is bound to hell forever unless I shun him" and more "the devil's in the vegetable patch again, take the broom and chase him off - no, I did it last time"). Different shows have different characters and routines, and often there are variations on the show throughout the day for the sake of the people who've already seen it once that morning. Characters also look and behave differently according to the petformer's style, ranging from the very traditional to the more modern (or a mix!) and there are usually jokes pitched over the heads of the children at the adults ("don't lie to me Punch, you're not a politician").

The plot is very basic and mostly consists of one character at a time (the theatre is about the size of a tall fridge with a small "stage" at the top, so there is one puppeteer doing everything and they only have two hands) coming onto the stage, conversing with Mr Punch, and being chased off in a hail of stick blows. Some of the characters manage to get the stick and hit Mr Punch back (in some shows, Judy has the stick to begin with), and I believe the crocodile generally eats him at the end.

What surprised my Australian friend was that the panto "oh no he isn't/he's behind you" is also present here and none of the children missed a beat. Kids learn very quickly how it works, the puppets will prompt you (Judy often conducts with her hands when she doesn't have the baby on her) and everyone else on the beach has grown up with it so you just sort of pick it up. Sometimes the characters will also encourage you to join in with a line, or to call them if the baby cries/anything tries to sneak up on the lovely string of sausages they're keeping at the edge of the stage. You cheer the goodies and boo the baddies and generally Get Involved.

Kids love this. Parents love this (if only because it distracts the kids). My friend and I sat at the back (cross legged on the floor like all the kids) and joined in despite being in our 20s at the time, and we weren't the only ones. Massive respect to the puppeteers, who basically climb into a very hot vertical coffin several times a day and perform incredibly complex shows (in terms of puppet changes, props, etc) about 4 times a day for very little reward.

Here's an example (Mr Punch here is in his traditional appearance, while Judy looks like she might be based on a specific archetype from a British soap opera). It won’t be as good as seeing it on the beach for real, though.

He proceeded to stress them again three more times during orientation. No biggie, I figured, and set a reminder on my phone for 2:45 just to be safe. Other than that I was just shown how to work the ticketing machine and where to find the spare D Batteries for the ancient flashlight they provided me with.

At 11:50 PM the last scheduled train departed. By 00:20 AM all the disembarked passengers had milled off. There was only one other person at the platform, a young homeless man missing a leg. Probably a veteran of one war or the other, there had been so many recently. He was sleeping on one of the benches. My manager had said I was to politely urge any passengers remaining after midnight to leave. He did not seem like a passenger so I let him sleep. It is how I was raised.

At 2:45 AM my alarm went off. I put aside my book, made sure my booth was tidy in case the executive's wife or mother or whoever would come was going to inspect it.

At 2:47 AM she was there.

I did not hear a car, nor approaching footsteps. The Babusia was simply there when she had not been before. A heavily wrinkled old woman, with a crooked nose and a scarf tied around her brittle-looking grey hair. A knobbly wooden walking stick was held by an equally knobbly left hand. She did not seem like the mother of some rich rail tycoon. She reminded me of my grandmother.

But I had never met my grandmother.

"One ticket, please." she requested in a firm voice, placing a small handful of coins on the counter without looking up at me. Most of the coins were obsolete Kopeks, and even counting those it was not enough for half a ticket, but as I was told before I nodded my head and accepted her money. "Of course. "

It suddenly occured to me that I was not told how to print a ticket for this unscheduled train. Before I could remark about it, I saw that the ticket was already at the mouth of the machine. It was green, with red lettering, something the black-and-white printer should not have made. But yet it did. The printing seemed in cyrillic of some sort, but I could not read it.

"Your ticket." I presented, and without thinking added "Do you require assistance to climb the platform stairs, grandmother?" It is how I was raised.

"Yes. Assist me." she replied curtly, beginning to shuffle slowly through the dark station towards the platform. I locked up my booth, and caught up with her just before the stairs. I switched on my heavy flashlight with my right hand, and offered the woman my right to brace herself. Her grip was strong. She probably would have had no issue climbing by herself, but assisting a grandmother was always the right thing to do, even when her sharp fingernails dug painfully into my palm.

We arrived at the platform. The clock hanging from the ceiling read 2:56. She released my hand and took a few steps, then looked at the sleeping man on the bench. "A friend of yours?" she asked. I thought about lying; if she was truly an executive's family, perhaps hosting a friend would be a lighter offense than turning a blind eye?

"No, grandmother." I responded truthfully. "He is not breaking the rules, so I left him alone." It is how I was raised.

The woman hummed. She seemed taller than before. Taller than me. The night draped her shoulders like a shaul and my torch did not reach it. Her gray hair shone like woven starlight, and her eyes were the night sky. I could not look away.

"You are a well-mannered girl." she said, her voice echoing in my ears like silence. She placed something small and hard in my hand.

A train arrived. It had only one car. I think it had a steam engine. It may have walked on chicken legs. I could not look at it.

The Grandmother boarded her train without another word. I was alone in a perfectly dull train station. Almost. The homeless woman behind me mumbled and stretched her legs in her sleep.