Underground

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moon shines upon the water. Glasses perched on her nose, she scans the station and tries to locate where her train is.

To the right of the old lady, next to an out-of-date dull red phone box, there sits a sleepy beggar who smells like an unpleasant concoction of alcohol and vomit. Grasping his cup, the man pleads for spare change from people passing by.

Speech slurred, no one understands him and they walk quickly on by.

The sadness which the beggar is feeling at this point intoxicates the room like ink in water. Later on, as the day draws to a close, the once busy station is now a ghost town. Rail workers pack their bags and return to their loving families; whereas for the night watchers the day has just begun. The sun climbs down turning everything orange chrome color and short sharp breezes continue to turn the litter into the only thing being heard. In the distance, a final train, probably with no more than 20 people on it, can be spotted. The station now waits for ...

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