John’s Mystery Train

John’s Mystery Train, I write in my journal.  (I could see his name displayed on the clipboard in his lap.)  I sit quietly in the corner of the roofless safari-vehicle, the open landscape stretching to the horizon (mostly sand dunes, the smell of the sea but a hint of salt in the air), writing in my journal (a simple school notebook).  Finally the vehicle empties of others.  He notices me.

John’s Mystery Train,

I scribble again in my journal, using my secret language.  He glances over my shoulder, puzzled.

Is this Hebrew? he asks.

I raise my notebook to him.  Have you ever seen it before? I say.

He stares at my doodles.

I know John plays the guitar,

His shoulder-length hair is ink dark, and he closely resembles a singer whose voice I find alluringly seductive. (I was having difficulty talking to John; he was tongue-numbing handsome.)

As the landscape dissolves, I wrack my brain for a good ending to this tale.  Alas, none is found in the chambers of my mind.

Another misty day, I think as I crack open my eyes.

8AM, announce the digits on the clock’s face.