The Train And The Legacy (GBL Flash Fiction)

Flash Fiction

"Excuse me, sir. May I ask what is it that you are doing?"

Thomas Fennel glanced down towards the source of the voice. He eyed the girl of no more than sixteen suspiciously. "May I be of service to you, miss?"

The London street was busy but nobody ever paid the old man any attention. Why was someone disturbing him now?

"I apologise, sir, curiosity has stolen the best of me. Forgive me for being presumptuous, to me it looks as if you are throwing luggage at a painting."

"Curiosity comes with an air of caution, young lady, however, you presume correct."

"But how? Why does it disappear?" The girl stared into his eyes with a glint of amazement.

Thomas gave her a warm smile behind winkled lips, "If I told you the truth, would your mind comprehend the seriousness of the information?"

"What is the truth, sir?"

"First tell me your name? You may call me Thomas if you like."

"Clarissa Donovan, sir... Thomas." Clarissa ruffled up her flowery dress, eager to learn all she could of the man's actions.

"Well, miss Clarissa. I am not throwing my possessions at the painting, I am throwing them into the painting."

"What in heavens for?"

"You see, m'lady, I am old and at the ripe age for retirement. You see this bridge?" Thomas pointed towards the painting allowing Clarissa to view the image of a lonely stone bridge in a sea of green fields. Several small suitcases were stacked near the edge of the structure.

Mr Fennel checked his pocket watch, "In around thirteen minutes a train will pass over that bridge and I intend to board it."

"How do you expect to board a moving train?" Clarissa asked curiously.

"In the same way one might jump into a painting. Now if you'll excuse me, I must get my remaining bags inside."

The girl stepped back and gasped as Thomas threw another case into the painting. It disappeared for a few seconds before reappearing next to the luggage as a little oil-painted square.

"Listen," Thomas smiled and leaned in closer to the landscape painting.

Clarissa copied his posture but defeatedly replied, "I don't hear anything."

"Listen closer," Thomas spoke firmly. Clarissa listened and sure enough there was the faint whistling sound of a steam train coming from a distance.

"I can hear it! How are you doing that?"

"By defying physics, young one. Now, if you don't mind, I really must get going." Thomas threw his last bag into the painting.

"But how is this happening?" Clarissa pleaded as she watched the last bag appear by the bridge.

The old man stood directly behind Clarissa. "Child, I will tell you but it will be short."

"Thank you, Thoma-" Clarissa could not finish her sentence for Thomas gave her a sharp push and she felt herself falling through a bright void.

Suddenly she stood atop a stone bridge, the very one she had been staring at through a painting. She searched around frantically for a way back to London.

"Relax," came the familiar voice of Thomas. He appeared abruptly beside her.

"Where are we?" Clarissa demanded.

"In the painting, of course. Don't be frightened. I will show you the way out. We have a few minutes before my train arrives."

"This is... This is... Is incredible!" Clarissa gleefully shouted, "Amazing!"

"Listen, girl. Do you want to hear my story?" Thomas grew impatient.

"Sorry, sir, please continue."

"It started thirty years ago in the year of her majesty, the Queen, 1843. I was neither young nor old. I was a street artist, making a living selling dreams to city folk.

I met a crazy old man. Merlin, Merlai; something like that. He told me he could make the pictures I drew move. I bet him a sovereign he could not."

The call of the train became more prominent.

"Long story short, I was a pound out of pocket. My canvas came to life; the waves crashed upon the rocks, the trees danced in the wind. It was majestic."

"Sounds lovely."

"It was. I told him I've always dreamt of visiting  the places in which I paint. He made some bizarre expressions and I never saw him again."

The train suddenly came into view. The vibration could be felt through the weary stones.

"The next morning I woke up to find I was exactly on the beach I had created. I knew it was not real because I had made the whole scene up.

But it felt real. The children I drew were alive. As clear as day they were, like you and me now."

Thomas began shifting the bags closer to the track. The train appeared to be slowing down.

"Sir, I believe you are standing too close. Thomas!" The thundering of the train was so close Clarissa raised her panic stricken voice.

"It's ok, Clarissa. Watch this, I'm giving you a gift!" Thomas waved his arm as if signalling the driver's attention.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a leather pouch. He threw it to the girl who stood some distance away from the track.

"That will tell you everything you need to know."

Clarissa opened the pouch. A thick wooden brush with golden bristles lay inside. "What's this?" When she looked up again the train was crawling past and Thomas was already aboard.

"My legacy. Use it wisely!" Thomas called after her. The train picked up speed again and slowly took the old man out of view.

"Now what?" Clarissa gripped the pouch tightly. She turned around and found she was back on the familiar street of London.

"What a bizarre occurrence," she muttered to herself. She studied the paintbrush once more.

A blank canvas stood in front of her. She placed the brush on the canvas and lines appeared. Clarissa drew the first image that came to her.

She gasped in excited astonishment at the resulting image. The man waved at her from the train.

The end...