The Last Train Home
We left the play early. It was the last day before the start of secondary school. Dad told me off for slapping the seats, wanting to see the dust rise like smoke. Floating to the ceiling, dirtying the lights. The doors hissed open and a stranger emerged. Approached with a stare that unwrapped the skin from my bones, trickled down the neckline of my shirt. He held out a hand to my dad and grinned. Gums like the flesh left on cherry pits. I gazed at the ugly pattern on my seat. The filth beneath, festering.
Rose Ramsden is a UK based poet currently studying for her Creative Writing Masters at Royal Holloway, University of London. Her work has been previously published by bathmagg, The Punch Magazine, and dubble, among others. You can find her on Instagram @RoseRamsden.