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Everyone's forever plugging their own music on this website, so I think enough is enough - I'm going to plug my
creative ventures for once. If you don't know what I do, I'm an
aspiring surrealist comedian and writer and I specialise in cynical
absurdist humour.

For the last few days I've been toying with a short story called "Drip
Drip". As usual, I'm not satisified with merely having the words sit
there and collect dust, so I've recorded it in audiobook fashion and
added a (hopefully) appropriate music track by the wonderful
Alamaailman Vasarat (I do hope I'm not breaking any severe laws by
doing so...). I think it follows the dynamics of the story quite nicely
and this proggy addition merits a little plugging on here, IMO. It's
quite a "prog" story anyway: unusual arrangements, and so on... 

Anyhow, here's the text for those with eyes:

Drip

Drip

Sighing a little attention-seeking sigh and needlessly checking her
watch, Lillian observes that the 08:34 to Basingstoke is delayed by six
minutes. At this rate she’ll be late for work for the third time in a
week – a poor record, even by her standards. Perhaps she wants to be
late, she ponders idly as she watches the seconds on the large digital
clock thud along with a plodding, sodding inevitability. Perhaps the
dreariness of her job, the stagnation of her life and her overwhelming
desire to still be in bed where there are pillows and quilts and
teddies she’s never had the heart to wish au revoir is causing the
train to malfunction in some way? Or maybe there are leaves on the
line. Whatever the reason, the train is delayed and there is nothing
she can do but to sit and wait for it. She perches on the very edge of
the cold metal bench so thoughtfully situated just outside the
festering men’s toilets and wrinkles her nose pointedly as the door
swings open, allowing for a quick release for the stench of stale
urine, vomit, sheep’s lungs, rotting cabbages and whatever else has
been deposited in that chamber of horrors. Concentrating on avoiding
eye contact with the severe looking man poised on the opposite outer
limits of the bench, she sets about sending a frosty and confusing text
message to a friend that she doesn’t really like any more.

The severe looking man, whom for the sake of argument (and fiction,
come to think of it) we shall refer to as William, is dreading the
train even more than dear Lillian. The reason? It will leave him within
walking distance of his own messy death. He knows this because an owl
has told him so, and one must never doubt the perceptive qualities of
an owl. He stares blackly at the sign ahead of him, declaring to all
who care to look at it that they are situated on Platform 2. His
knuckles whiten as he grips his mobile phone in dread.

A well-dressed young man (name of Brian) paces restlessly along the
platform. He holds a shiny new briefcase (that contains just one
cluster of stapled sheets and the posh pen his mother had given him for
his birthday that he dares not ever write with) in his left hand and a
shiny new mobile phone in his right. The old woman by the vending
machine has kept count of the number of times he’s glanced at it.
Thirty-four, for the record. This young man was not about to meet his
death, nor was he going to work as he’d have you believe. In fact, he
is on his way to a convention of mint enthusiasts where he hopes to
confuse and annoy people by not knowing very much about mints.

The old woman by the vending machine, incidentally, is not human, and
therefore of little relevance to this story. Suffice it to say she
mostly observes things and it amuses her no end.

A whole eight minutes later than expected, the delayed 08:24 South West
Trains service to Basingstoke groans and whimpers into the station and
the disgruntled many embark.

William spends the first four minutes fruitlessly wandering up and down
the carriages searching in vain for two empty seats so he doesn’t have
to face the horror of sitting adjacent to a stranger. In the end he
slumps down next to a man with a beard at least twice as big as his
head. This man is called Timothy and he is reading a magazine about
birds. In particular, an article on the habits of flamingos. They sit,
as does the rest of the train, in a congregation of silence, save for
the steady drip drip of some liquid or other.

After a few minutes of this, Lillian begins to wonder what this drip
drip could be. She looks around but sees nothing and returns to her
frantic texting, having managed to successfully instigate an argument
about nothing whatsoever.

Brian is leafing through his papers when he, too, becomes aware of the
dripping. A plump droplet falls with a “splup” onto his sheets and
causes the word “hooplah” to ripple and run down through “tin”,
“unfortunately” and the first two letters of “castigated”. He looks up,
and it dawns on him, though his eyes prefer not to believe.

Timothy has noticed too, and is shifting nervously. William asks him
what the matter is, and Tim mumbles, a little embarrassed, into his
beard: “I… I could be wrong of course but… I believe the train is
melting”.

“Tickets please!” It’s one of those queer inspectors with a limping
voice. Do they think they’re jolly, I wonder? Are they under the
misapprehension that their absurd vocal delivery makes them a
“character”? Who can say? This one, however, is painfully oblivious to
the mounting disquiet in the carriages as people tut and fumble for
their tickets. “Any more tickets, please?” his nasal voice swaggers. As
he reaches Lillian, who is still too engrossed in her argument to
notice anything but herself, Timothy leans across William and tugs at
his elbow. “Ex… excuse me sir, but I think the train is melting.”

The ticket inspector looks up and a blob of luggage rack hits him
squarely in the forehead. “Ah” he says, and rushes to the front of the
train.

The train is beginning to melt rapidly now, small parts of the roof
have given way and are flapping dangerously, and the tops of the
windows are starting to droop. The train screeches to a halt as a voice
crackles through on the intercom:

“Good morning passengers and welcome aboard the South West Trains
service to Basingstoke. I am sorry to inform you that the train is
currently melting. This is a relatively rare occurrence, but we do have
a procedure in place which we are now currently implementing. If you
could look under your seats, please, you will find a sizeable bucket.
We must ask you to try and collect as much of the train as possible in
these buckets and then hand them to the nearest guard. You will then be
escorted in groups to the nearest bus stop where a temporary bus
service will be arranged to take you to your destination. We apologise
for the severe inconvenience.”

The old woman chuckles quietly to herself and digs out her bucket to
catch a falling blob of train. Lillian begins shouting loudly to no one
in particular about her now ruined skirt. Brian’s eyes dart about at
the madness surrounding him as he scoops up handfuls of his seat to
dump in his receptacle.

Timothy and William are now chatting amiably as they fill their
buckets. Timothy, it transpires, is a retired postman and a keen
wildlife enthusiast. He consoles William on the matter of his imminent
death, but agrees with him that the owl should not be doubted. They
continue chatting on the bus all the way to Basingstoke.

* * *

And for those of you who are interested, William did indeed die. He was
run over by a librarian in a small Nissan on his immediate arrival.

And a link to the audio for those with ears:

http://s44.yousendit.com/d.aspx?id=2R421B0NE36KB09MBBYLV2U 67I

Those with both eyes and ears are welcome to use the two in conjunction.  Comments greatly appreciated, of course.

Edit: You'll need to remove a space between the U and the 6 towards the end of that link for it to work.

Edited by Trouserpress