Bearton leaned forward, eyes squinting with the weight of a question: “Bob … what was it like … in Hades?” The train leaned into a curve not marked on any map and something shifted. Not outside, but inside the train itself. A deep, mechanical groan ran along its underbelly, like something ancient waking in the track. A twitch in the bones of Elsewhere.
The train began to shake. Not politely, like trains sometimes do. No, this was different. As if it had swallowed truth too big to keep it down. A full-body tremor. As if it remembered something that it had tried very hard to forget. And the train began to shake.
Not just rattle. It shook. Violently. Convulsively. Outside, lightning cracked the sky, twice. First like punctuation. Then like correction. Then came the parentheses. But the third bolt didn’t leave. It stayed and to one of the passengers on the train, it felt like the Universe had developed a sore throat and finally decided to speak.
Passengers gasped, some screamed, others covered their ears. One woman began singing in a language no one recognized:
In love did sorrow coil its root and
pain did bloom with passion’s fruit.
The coin of hearts was softly pressed
yet often bled from wounded breast.
We paid in love, a holy strain
but oftener still, we paid in pain.
For love and woe in secret dance
have sealed the soul in mystic trance.
Then came the Painter of the Vast
who mixes blood with tempest’s blast,
and with a brush of iron flame
He signed the dark with Heaven’s name.
The winds did moan, the heavens cracked,
the sun withdrew, the sky turned black.
A gentle breeze in silence wept
as thunder over Eden crept.
The shadows stalked in every vale,
where moonlight fled in spirit pale,
did whisper truths too sharp to bear
and none could hide in Elsewhere.
The gate swings wide—behold the toll!
The ferryman shall count each soul.
Lo! We descend through burning shade,
the path is set to Hades laid.
Then came the bees. A swarm of bees poured from the air vents. Not angry, just … confused. They buzzed erratically, as if receiving conflicting instructions from different parts of the unconscious. The buzz sounded like a broken metronome. In the confusion, Bob lost his telescope. It rolled. Then came the crackling intercom voice:
Train to Elsewhere now approaching: The Swamplands of Psyche.
This is your conductor speaking:
We will be slowing down as we approach
Swamplands of the Psyche.
Yes, I’m real, at least for now.
And no, you don’t get a name.
This isn’t that kind of journey.
Watch your step, the terrain is unstable.
Your ego will try to reroute. Don’t let it.
This stop is not optional for those traveling deeper into Elsewhere.
For your safety, remain seated, unless …
Bearton leapt up. He stumbled back into his seat, instinctively clutching the train’s emergency philosophy manual. He’s thinking about leaving. Again. But his spirit’s still stuck somewhere in the Enchanted Forest.
David Bohm, quietly staring out of window until now, gripped the sill with white-knuckled calm. His eyes were tracking something no one else could see. Maybe it was an equation unraveling.
Bob darted forward, chasing the telescope: between feet, bags, and bees. But before he could grab it, a man stooped down and picked it up. Bob looked up. It was a tall, composed man in middle age, wearing a dark coat that looked like it had read too many books. His face was worn in the way of people who think too much and sleep too little. He handed Bob the telescope with a half-smile and said: “Here’s your cigar, sir.”
Bob blinked. Then growled: “That is not a cigar!” He snatched it back and slid into the seat next to him, pretending he wasn’t slightly unnerved. Then he watched the man sideways, while trying to hide his twitching ears. Bob was secretly wondering who he was.
The man only smiled again, unbothered, and resumed scribbling in a small, rain-speckled notebook with the words Inner Authority stamped on its cover.
A figure stood up. No one knew who he was either. He hadn’t been noticed. Though perhaps he had always been there, blending in, like a bad idea wearing polite shoes. He had a strange red hat, too bright, too stiff, as if stitched together from broken slogans and performance anxiety.
His eyes darted like flies around a half-finished thought. And he exhumed strange unease, the kind that made the bees grow quiet for a second or two and even Professor Fuzzyweather stopped mid-handstand.
Suddenly, he began toppling his feet, not dancing exactly, but more like marching in place with a rhythm of a poorly remembered chant from another reality. Then he opened his mouth and shouted:
DRAIN! THE! SWAMP!
DRAIN! THE! SWAMP!
No one followed. Bob blinked twice, slowly this time, and recoiled: “He’s clearly never been to therapy.”
Bearton stared at the man in red, then quietly adjusted his monocle and turned away.
The bees now buzzed louder, agitated. The strange man in the dark coat, situated next to Bob, looked up from his notebook, arched an eyebrow, and made a small, disappointed checkmark in the margin. At that precise moment, the conductor’s voice returned low and unhurried:
Attention, passengers!
Let us repeat for the hard of hearing and eager of projection:
do not attempt to drain the swamp!
I repeat:
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DRAIN THE SWAMP!
This is not that kind of swamp.
It belongs to Psyche and she remembers everything.
It may even drain you back.
The red-hatted man froze in silence and his chant fizzled. The bees surrounded him, buzzing something ancient and slightly sarcastic privately into his left ear. So he sat down.
The moment stretched. It was tense. Unfinished. The kind of moment that doesn’t end so much as split. And somewhere between the shaking, the buzzing, and the thunder trying to form words, Bearton whispered to himself in a voice full of sorrow: “Always the timing.”
The train rolled on. Deeper and deeper. The bees disappeared and the intercom crackled back to life:
Next stop: Swamplands of the Psyche!
The conductor’s voice was calm. Too calm. Like he knew exactly what was coming.
Gentle Reminder!
Your masks of adaptation may not function here.
Anna Moochoon | Elsewhere Universe 
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