Slow Transit
by Michael C.
Keith
I was aerating the soil in
my garden in preparation for installing some
tulip bulbs for the coming spring when my trowel
struck something hard. To my surprise, the buried
object turned out to be quite long and wide.
After considerable excavation, I realized it was
a door. How could that be? I wondered,
since I had planted flowers in that very spot the
year before and had found nothing.
When I had finally cleared
the soil away from the secreted portal, I pulled
at its brass handle and it creaked opened. I had
barely lifted it more than a few inches when a
gloved hand curled around its edge and pushed
hard enough to knock me off my feet. Terror
seized me and I screamed at whatever it was that
was slowly emerging from what apparently was some
kind of underground chamber. Strange metallic
squealing sounds emanating from it added to my
dismay.
”Excuse me,” said
a proper-looking gentleman, shaking the dirt from
his double-breasted wool frock and bowler. “Is
this Chesham Station? I’ve been on the
bloody Tube for what seems a century?”
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