The Train Hides
By Chad Anyuga
We started this great dance called “running” seven months ago, and it isn’t feeling stale yet. The view is nice, and we’re in motion. The hobo life is the best way to stay off the grid, despite security being what it is now. It was so much simpler in the 20’s. Even with the racism in the American South, it was still wonderfully easy to escape at a moment’s notice by catching a train.
Clark has been on a learning curve since we abandoned ship, aka New York. He’s used to social media, comfy living—the limelight where his name is known and his credit card has no limit. He gave up his spotlight life for me, so I try and make living on the lam as swank as possible for us both.
Traveling by train via stolen identities is the best I can do with a weak glam, and not much get-up-and-go in my magic reserves. I’m getting more powerful, but until my wings are strong enough this’ll have to do.
I’m sure Mr. Stone will find us, but by that time we’ll be back at court in the glittering world. I’ve not felt hope in ages, but I think I’m starting to. Anything is better than sitting in that apartment waiting to die.
And Clark is with me at least. He’s eaten my food and drunk my wine, so he’s stuck with me regardless, but he is special to me. He is as beautiful as the day I met him. The smell of him still makes me heady. Man sweat and that cologne that he loves. It reminds me of warm gym showers after a workout. Even as he sleeps he radiates that scent and I want to nibble him.
No one is looking, and I’m bored in the moonlight.
I lean forward and roll my shoulders back, letting my wings lift a bit. To anyone without the sight, I’m a sad chic with a hump. But the minute I engage my magic, my senses perk up and details fly at me. I close my eyes briefly, taking in the nasal details—Yeast, boys, various level of fertility and desire. Some illness. Lots of gas. Clark’s fear and warmth. I lick my lips and can faintly taste the magic radiating from my skin.
The enhanced view out the window makes me feel like a waking predator. Lake, field, house, house, house. It doesn’t blur. Each detail passes by my adapted eyes, kissing my memory banks with details of color and line and just as quickly, fading to make room for the next entry. I turn away from the window towards the interior.
Clark’s pocket shifts color in my peripheral view. The tiniest stab of light ekes through the fibers of his coat. It must have been on silent, but the notification blinked a steady rhythm. With my unhindered sight, it may as well have been a battering ram to my eyes.