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THE TICKET by D.B.Adams Minimalist was one word that sprang to mind, unfriendly, soulless, were others. Officially it was called a station but in reality it was just a platform with four bright mercury vapour lights, two on either side of the post modernist shelter, all glass, shiny chrome and gloss white paintwork. Other than a couple of posters , one advertising "all the worlds greatest music on two CD's, the other PEP's, the only other feature was the ticket machine. Henry Purfleet stared at the ticket machine, whereas the stations design was simplicity itself, the ticket machine was the exact opposite. He shook his head in dismay there were at least a hundred buttons, some bore the names of stations, others strange codes; zone 1, zone 2 to 6, railcard, travelcard, weekly, return. After several minutes Henry decided that he had worked out the right combination, he straightened out a ten pound note as per the diagram and slipped it into the machine. The machine made a clicking noise, went
quite for a few seconds the with a low hum ejected a ticket. Henry tried again, this time there would be no mistake he double checked each button before pressing it, once more the machine presented him with a ticket. " Platform" he looked around the empty station for support, Henry Purfleet was becoming extremely agitated "Platform - Platform" he snarled at the ticket machine, hitting it, twice. This time nothing happened, he looked round gave the machine an almighty kick then went and sat down in the shelter to await his train. Early next morning, just before sunrise Henry's body was still sitting in the shelter. Under the cold station lights his skin appeared as white as the paintwork and his hair had taken on the silvery hue of the chrome. His lifeless eyes stared down at the ticket clutched in his hand, between his fingers one word just visable; Platform.
Copyright D.B.Adams 1997 .
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