J.A. Tyler

J.C. Lee

Adam Engel

Kane X. Faucher

In a Trunk Near St. Louis

An old man sat crumpled on a bench. Waiting for a train. Beneath his seat bound in dust and grime was an old trunk: green rusted bruised worn. Useless leather straps shredded at its sides.

His breathing rattled inside of a hollow body. He whistled a persistent wheeze in his throat. He repositioned himself on the wooden slats and the iron armrest.

A young boy newly made in a bright red t-shirt and jeans sidled up to the bench and looked at the old man. He looked with dark brown eyes. Silently he questioned. Quietly he asked.

What happened?

Nothing yet. Waiting on the 36 from St. Louis.

Oh.

The boy looked to a kneecap truncated just below. Air and breeze where a leg should have been.

You mean this?

Huh? No. Well. Yeah. I guess. The old man scratched the stub. The boy's eyes glazed with delight. War and terror and blood and violence. Inherent in youth. The old man knew this. He had felt the same before. A long time ago. Had outgrown it since. But he remembered. This was one thing the man could still do. Remember.

Lost it.

Oh. How?

Diabetes. Cancer. Gangrene. Syphilis. Paralysis. Tumors. Diseases basically. Loads of them.

Oh.

The old man chuckled from somewhere deep inside near a failing kidney or rotting liver or a cantankerous lung. The boy laughed too not knowing the joke but enjoying the old man's yellowed and moth-eaten grin. And the man liked the boy's smile too. Front teeth missing. Black gap filled in with pink tongue. They stared. One sitting. One standing.

Can I sit here?

Sure. Be my guest.

The boy noticed the trunk stuffed partially hidden beneath the bench. The man smiled.

What’s that?

That?

Yeah.

What do you think it is?

I don't know. Maybe your clothes. A toothbrush.

That big old trunk for a tiny little toothbrush?

You know. Toothbrush. Clothes. Maybe some shampoo.

Oh yeah?

Yeah. Traveling stuff. Said you were waiting for a train. To St. Louis.

From St. Louis.

Oh.

They watched as a train came and went without stopping. It stirred a wind that smelled of oil and coal and steel and the rusting sky of trampled butterflies and clouds stubbornly shapeless. A trailing gust and static-riddled silence.

So what's in the trunk?

Nothing.

Really?

Nothing good.

Oh. What does that mean?

Means it was something. But it's not worth anything anymore.

Oh. Like money or something?

Money is still worth something isn't it?

Not really. I've got two dollars right now, and it doesn't seem like that buys anything.

I see.

So is it money?

No.

Then what is it?

The old man coughed phlegm spasms from inside tears and bruises. The boy turned away with the instinct of contagions and an inkling of awareness. The old man rubbed the stump again. Grazed the dirty wrapping with dirty fingernails. The boy's eyes returned.

Is it your leg?

What's that?

Is it the rest of your leg? In that box?

In this trunk?

Yeah. Is it what's left of your leg?

You're a smart boy.

Thanks.

A woman's head peered around the corner and called for the boy. Eyes dropped back to the old man, and she called again with a pepper of tension. The boy looked from her to the old man and then back again. He understood. They both did.

You better get going.

Yeah.

So long.

You always keep it with you?

Always.

It's no good to you anymore.

I know.

Can't put it back on or anything.

I know. I know.

Then why do you drag it along?

Well. It's hard to let some things go.

Oh. Well. See you around.

The boy popped off of the bench and skipped towards his mother. She grabbed his hand and led him quickly down the platform. The old man sat staring long after the brown head was out of sight. He looked at the trunk. He'd thought about leaving it in San Antonio and Santa Fe and even somewhere out on the California coast. But he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Sometimes it's hard to let things go. So you carry it on. You carry on, and you carry it on.

J. A. Tyler has published lately in Underground Voices, Inscribed, and Ramble Underground and has work upcoming in Skive, Feathertale Review, and Cha. He is also founding editor of Mud Luscious. Check out more at: www.aboutjatyler.