Featured Short Story
The Man who never came.
“Good job!” she said and, slipping from the rail, tugged the hem of her summer-dress back down towards her knees.
Tom tried to catch his breath. He couldn’t really say the earth had moved. 200,000 tonnes of Canadian Pacific rolling stock had intervened, stomping across the swing-bridge above them like a peg-leg pirate. Somewhere about truck 34, that lonesome whistle blew and Nellie came. Tom couldn’t keep it up past 68.
“You’d best put that away,” she shouted above the din. “No point in getting busted.”
Tom tucked himself back out of sight, feeling somewhat short-changed by the Canadian railway system. The last ore truck clunked east towards the Great Divide. The moon shone on the lake.
She took his sticky left-hand, switched it for his right- “Well, here we are,” she said.
“Yes, here we are.”
“Your accent’s cute,” she said.
“You said.”
“Yes. Didn’t I. Your place or mine?”
“There’s more?”
“Of course there’s more. This is Canada.”
“I’ve got a camper van,” Tom said.
“How big?” Nellie asked
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