Piper Square - Chapter 1 - Clever Marx

Pepper Station - Art by Jacob hair

Clever Marx stood on the Pepper Station platform waiting for the train to arrive.

Though the humidity and heat was excessive, he was shivering. His hands were deep in the wet pockets of his overcoat. Inside the coat it was as though he was trapped in a furnace; so hot he he his skin would char and the smell of cooked flesh would arise. Sweat had begun to form along his hairline, pooling together then streaking along his face; dripping onto his coat.

Through all of this, it never occurred to Clever Marx to take off his jacket. 

Behind him a couple sat on a wooden bench held together by a wrought iron frame. Their eyes focused on one another only, becoming deaf and dumb to the world, oblivious to the man standing before them. Their hands intertwined then locked together, solidifying their unbreakable bond. 

To Clever Marx it was a desperate act, and he sniffed his nose loudly to announce his discontent.

Not so long ago he was like them, starry eyed and foolish, caring little of what others thought, lost in a world of two. So enamored was he that he was blind to the seductive lies she told. As he recalled her confessions, he realized they now only induced rage, which in turn caused him to clench his fist; his fingers slipping wetly against one another.

After a few minutes the platform began to crowd. Individuals began to stake out their seats, or claiming their standing space in preparation for entry into the car they wished to ride. The increase in bodies, the collection of body warmth, the air thick from moisture and swat, all guaranteed that Clever Marx would be struck; repeatedly. An elbow here, a knee there, grazing his clothes, briefly imbedding into his body, testing the limits of his rage.

A young woman barely in her twenties, eyes filled with lie of innocence, made her way across the the platform. Wordlessly she would offer people the opportunity to purchase flowers from her basket. A small portion took pity on her, reaching into their pockets and wallets to pay, hoping the flowers would ignite some kind of latent passion in those destined to receive them.

The flower maiden reached the couple on the bench, their eyes barely noticing her. Nor did those eyes acknowledge overflowing platform. Without a look the young man produced a dollar, placed it into the basket, grabbed a handful of roses by the stem and presented them to his lover. 

As she pulled the roses from his hand, neither of them took notice of the thorns that separated from his skin, nor the blood from the wounds that first bubbled then streamed, then dripped onto the floor.

Clever Marx watched as the maiden took a small kerchief and placed it in the man’s hand.

From the dark distance a light shone and the platform began to rumble.

The flower maiden approached Clever Marx.

The mass of the train began to roll in, its silhouette becoming more defined. 

She stretched out her arm, a winter rose in her hand.

Iron pressed against iron, forcing the train let out a screeched as it broke.

Clever removed his hands from his pocket, raising the palms out toward her.

A bell sounded and the doors opened, people paying rushed in and out, paying no attention to their surroundings.

The young woman’s face turned white, her eyes focused on large droplets of blood that were dripping from Clever Marx’s red stained hands.

The doors closed and another bell sounded.

“My hands are bloody enough,” said Clever Marx blankly.

The wheels of the train began to turn, slowly at first; then gaining speed as it left the station. 

Alone on the clear platform and unable to vocalize her fear, the young woman looked forward, but stared at nothing.

For you see, Clever Marx had disappeared.