The Abysmal Biscuit - Finish the Story #50

The Abysmal Biscuit

First half by @F3nix

The awareness of the box's contents dripped slowly in Joelle's mind, coagulating like a graceless Rorschach's blot. Bones. Tiny tapered bones, standing out against the mahogany bottom.

The unusual item jolted on the worn chair, reacting to the vibrations of the old diesel-powered train. The convoy, the last of his lineage, still fulfilled its duty along the Brașov-Sighișoara route allowing students to return to their homes every weekend. To the rhythm of joints and sleepers, the whiteness of the remains continued to dance tremulously before the eyes of the young woman as the frames of her glasses slipped slowly from her nose.

In a tinkling clink of bracelets, the student closed the lid of the box and moved away as far as possible from it, crushing herself against the seat's padding. The lazy air of the air conditioner stuck to the bottom of her dry throat an acrid plastic taste.

And then she saw him. The old passenger had returned and was staring at her through the windows that led from the corridor of the car to the cabin. She listened to her own scream erupting and fill the cramped cab.

"I didn't want to scare you, young lady."

"N-not scared, don't worry". Somehow, Joelle managed to gather the few polite words her manners demanded. She could not have said how long he had been watching and if he had seen where curiosity had taken her. The glasses, temples up in the air, laid on the seat beside her.

The old man was tall and lanky, his burnished skin resembled the ancient scales of a dragon. Dressed in work trousers and a raw cotton shirt, he gave the impression of being one of those peasants whose families had inhabited the Carpathians for centuries.

Joelle's gaze passed involuntarily from the man to the funeral urn disguised as a biscuit tin: the representation of a merry-go-round in a lacquered colored wood and graceful workmanship. The children were swirling with their bent busts, perhaps because of the speed of the carousel. Their mouths were wide open and their hands clung to the poles skewering the horses. With a lump in her throat, she remembered the fleeting memory of just a few hours before, when a train was huffing at the central station and a gentle old man asked her help because he couldn't open the cabin door. She felt like something ruined down from her lungs to her guts.

"I see that you like my craft."

In the silence, she could detect the old man's fingers caressing the box inlays.

"It's delicious. A gift for a grandchild?" Joelle realized only now that the object was his only baggage. In the warm twilight, the colors of lacquered wood seemed even more lively. The conifers thickened on the sides of the train, sliding quickly to the edges of her field of vision.

"Oh. A gift, says the young lady. Like a toy, perhaps?" The old man's eyes were two black bottomless pits. His gaze had slowly become vitreous like that of a deep-water fish, yet at the same time penetrating.

"Yes, a toy. I like how you see it, miss." The passenger continued, his voice getting thinner.

Only then, Joelle realized where they were heading: the train had just passed the old mill and would soon pass through the tunnels beneath the mountain.

"You may have noticed how I depicted all these children. Observe, miss, between a horse and the other: they are not alone." By pronouncing the last vowel, which he abnormally prolonged, his voice tone had become a slow and drawling rattle.

It was still too early for the wagons' lights to turn on and the tunnels were preparing to swallow the convoy.

A sound of nails carving into the wood tore the thoughts of the young student.

My Entry:

“What was that?” Joelle shrilled, her voice reaching the pitch of bats. In the darkness of the tunnel, the lights still yet to appear, she fumbled around for her glasses, as if they would make her see in the dark.

The lights turned on, slowly warming to full brightness. Joelle picked up her glasses and shoved them onto her face. She looked up at the old man, he still hadn’t moved, he held onto the decorative box, his fingers running over the delicate design.

“Forgive me.” His voice had regained its strength. “I’m not the young man I once was.” He carefully flexed his fingers. “I’m a little rusty.”

He offered her the box. Joelle didn't move, her back clung to the seat. He removed the lid and offered it again, this time the contents was visible to the both of them.

Joelle frowned as the varnished interior, now revealed a paper lining and chocolate covered biscuits. She wiped at her eyes, believing herself to be too tired from the long day at school.

The man chuckled. “You were correct, young lady, they are a gift for my grandchildren, though not a toy. Would you like one?”

Joelle reached her hand into the box, the temptation of a chocolate biscuit was too much to resist. She sat back in the seat and bit into the biscuit. The chocolate melted and mixed with the buttery shortbread as she chewed.

The man cackled. “You have fallen into my trap…”

The train jolted pulling her from her fantasy, she looked around the carriage, her fellow classmates laughing and talking. Her best friend sat next to her fighting with a packet of Rusks.

She sighed to herself. The man’s last words had been too off character. He had once been a stranger to her, but she had carefully created him over the last few weeks, giving him a family, a history and ambitions.

She took the plain biscuit her friend offered and looked out the window. She chewed slowly, the Rusk turning to mush in her mouth.

The ride home every friday evening was the perfect setting for her mind to run wild with ideas. Familiar characters would appear, and worn out plotlines would resurface with a new twist. This month's theme had been the old magic man. Something about him had kept her pulling at the thread.

Her mind returned to the box. She had seen it somewhere as a child, the intricate detailing had stayed with her. She knew the craft suited him, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. The scene replayed, she needed to know what would happen next.

This is my entry to the @bananafish Finish The Story Contest #50. Find out about it here.

Image from Pexels.

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