J. Allen Holt - Episode 1: "Risk"

Vera stands at the edge of the subway platform. She holds her purse in both hands in front of her waist.

This was a colossal waste of time. That ass hat doesn't think I know newspapers are dead? I should have told him, television news isn't too far behind my friend. Who watches the news any more? People without internet, that's who.

Their market share is people who are too old or too stubborn to learn to use a computer and drunks in bars staring at the local newscast. Let's not forget that's a short-term market too. One can only imagine next generation's drunkards and senior citizens will have their laptops and iPads to keep them company on that long, lonely road to liver disease and Alzheimer’s.

Who wants to be a “weather girl” anyways? Since when has that ever led anyone to a respectable news career? I don't remember anyone telling Walter Cronkite he should think about investing in bigger breasts.

People are staring at me. Am I thinking out loud again, or have they just never seen someone wearing high heels in a Hollywood metro station that wasn't a prostitute or transvestite... or both? I think a little of both.

Talking to yourself is okay, Vera. It's conversations that are the sign of mental illness. I think so at least. Just thinking aloud isn't crazy, right? It's not like having conversations with yourself. Wait. Is this a conversation or just thinking? Stop it!

They're definitely staring now. This train needs to hurry the hell up. It smells awful down here, almost as bad as the streets above ground. Inside the train is the worst though. I don't know how I get so lucky to always have the homeless guy with fresh urine sloshing around in his pants sit next to me every time I take the stupid metro.

Hmm... hmmhmmm, mmm... What song is this? I can't think of how it goes even. I must have heard it in the lobby or from a car passing outside. Best to just ride it out I suppose.

Vera continues humming and bends over to adjust her right shoe.

Something in here. These shoes are crap. Oh. That looks like a blister. Whoa!!!!

Losing her balance, Vera tumbles off the platform to the underground tracks below.

Flarghenook!

That wasn't a word. My head feels... sticky. Whoa. Holy...

She locks eyes with a man lying across the tracks.

What..? Who..? How the-

A woman screaming from above her breaks the trance. Several others join in and start pointing. They're blurry. Vera turns to the direction they're pointing.

A bright light. Blinding. White blinding light. Maybe it's more yellowish?

Damn.

Black.

To be continued?...

Allen lives in Reseda, CA with several mammals. He writes. He works a job that isn't writing. He'd like very much to change that last bit.