Jimson tied herself to the train tracks and waited to feel the vibrations. She figured there wasn’t any better way to get a sense of impending death. To feel it in your chest, starting as a thrum and moving to a buzz, would be the only way to know it fully. At least that was how she imagined it. A lot of people she knew had died; she wasn’t going in unprepared.

A man came, wearing a long cape and a top hat and he twirled his moustache deviously. What are you doing here? This is my spot. Jimson laughed at him. He was funny, being a cartoon and all. Weren’t cartoons supposed to be funny?

Move along, Jimson said. There’s plenty of track and I was here first. She grabbed a loose bit of rope with her teeth and tightened herself down.

The cartoon man swore and swore, and twirled his moustache so furiously that the end became frayed like a cheap paint brush. Jimson wanted to rip it off and create some fake rock paintings of spaceships or one of those geoglyphs of a giant hyena that you can only see from the sky, something hidden unless you knew exactly how to look.

A cartoon lady arrived, she had rope burns on her arms, but they were healing. What the fuck is this? she said, gesturing to Jimson.

My name means poison, Jimson said. No one knew what to do.

They all turned and watched as the train, like a pinprick, like an ever-expanding black hole, appeared on the horizon pulling them toward the inevitable.

Evan James Sheldon is Senior Editor for F(r)iction and the Editorial Director for Brink Literacy Project. You can find him online at evanjamessheldon.com.